


Vulgar Insights

by frumious_bandersnatch, InHisImage



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angelic Grace Bonds (Supernatural), Angelic Lore, Angst, Blood and Violence, Brotherly Love, Daddy Issues, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Family Dynamics, Gore, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Lucifer's Cage (Supernatural), M/M, Manipulation, Masochism, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, POV Multiple, Power Imbalance, Rape/Non-con Elements, S07: Rewrite, Sadism, Torture, Trauma, True Forms, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:59:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 112,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26730061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frumious_bandersnatch/pseuds/frumious_bandersnatch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/InHisImage/pseuds/InHisImage
Summary: “You knew he’d ask for it. Didn’t you? And you didn’t stop to intervene. If you had looked at him only once while we were talking, I’m sure he’d have been placated.” Death says. “And yet, you’ve chosen to show me perhaps one of the most intimate things you can experience here.”He crouches down to look at Sam, runs two fingers over the swell of his back, “Why, Lucifer?”Or,Following a mid-life crisis with drastic consequences, Death gives Lucifer a second chance he may not have deserved. Sam struggles to rebuild the identity he lost in the cage with the devil on his shoulder and a looming apocalypse on the horizon. With secrets that should have stayed buried revealed way too early, powerful timeless entities and the humans willingly or not-so-willingly involved with them examine the intricacies of their gray morality in love and war and the worst family drama in the history of history.(An alternative scenario canon-divergent based loosely on events fromPathological. The usual angst-and-torture fest with a bonus of unlikely alliances and an overarching plot. No redemption arcs but the bad guys might need a hug too!)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Chuck & Family, Crowley & Adam Milligan, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Death & Gabriel & Lucifer & Michael (Supernatural), Death & Sam Winchester, Gabriel/Loki, Lucifer/Sam Winchester, Michael/Adam Milligan
Comments: 504
Kudos: 129





	1. And Lead Us Not into Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> Funny story: this monster of a fic was meant to be a one-shot of ethically questionable smut. And then plot happened, and angst, so much angst. And it got long and dark and violent and we had so much fun with it. What I'm trying to say is, this is pretty self-indulgent and please (please!) mind the tags. Also all relationships are tagged in order of appearance, so they'll be there, but might take a while. Though Sam/Luci is the mainest main pairing. That said, if this is your cup of tea, hope you enjoy this rollercoaster as much as we enjoyed writing it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death’s first foray into the cage to try and take back Sam’s soul ends a little differently than expected.

“You’re not real.”

Death just barely tilted his head to the side, looking down at the frayed and broken soul before him. His face betrayed no emotion because it never did, but deep down in the emptiness of his being he felt something akin to pity starting to stir. It was far worse than he’d thought it would be while he was talking to Dean, and that was a feat in and of itself.

His eyes slowly shifted over to meet Lucifer’s. He said nothing, simply putting a little bit more of his weight on his cane. He wasn’t in the mood for games, not right then. He didn’t have the time, or at least, he didn’t care to sacrifice any more down there.

Lucifer would like to think he planned for this. For the near-insane mess curled around his leg and clinging for dear life, questioning his reality and willing to do just about anything to please. It was still heartwarming regardless, the end result be it premeditated or incidental. It filled him up with fondness though he was too threatened to entertain the feeling. He ruffled Sam’s hair a little too possessively, and with all his might, he kept the frantic storm whirling inside him under control. Wouldn’t work. Wouldn’t end well. Lucifer would attempt at diplomacy instead. 

If there was one advantage to ancient history in the present moment, it was that Lucifer knew Death. Before time became time and before he had him bound for the apocalypse. Knew him well enough to know that, sometimes, rarely, Death’s interest was piqued. That there was perhaps a way around, or through, his hardest of shells. The chance remained slim though that this could ever be utilized in a way that would bring about a favorable outcome. And yet it was something he could poke at or explore. Not that Lucifer had anything to lose. In all cases, for now, he stalled. 

His lips twitched with a forced smile, “This is what you came for? Let’s ask the man of the hour himself, why don’t we? Do you need rescue, Sammy?”

Sam gripped tighter at Lucifer, breath coming in sharp jerks and hiccups. It was a test, he was so certain. This wasn’t real and Lucifer had been lying earlier, he was right, this was just a test. “No. I want you, Lucifer, please. Please. I’m sorry.” He’d long since passed the point of knowing what he was sorry for for the most part, at least until Lucifer told him why he was repenting and carving himself into pieces to appease his new and terrible god. “Lucifer please, make it stop. I just want you.” 

If words could be framed, or cemented, or dissolved and kept in little bottles on long shelves, Lucifer would decorate his walls with Sam’s promises, polish and maintain them, like trophies and souvenirs. Because they felt good, they always felt good, and along the years they had become less and less eloquent, gotten repetitive and predictable, and Lucifer may have taught the boy new languages entirely for the purpose of hearing him beg and worship in new words, but the same old broken record still felt good all the same. Not a hint of the sentiment showed on his face, anyway. 

He gave Sam a single dismissive nod, and eyes travelled back to Death. He pursed his lips, and there was a certain aggression to his tone, like he was offended and he couldn’t fathom the audacity, “How about we let the boy decide for himself just this once, hm? Because to rob him of the choice like that, man, it breaks my heart and I don’t even have one.”

“You have already robbed him of any and all choices he has the capacity to make. Giving an ultimatum is not the same as preserving free will.” Death informed, eyes drifting back to Sam. “Did you ever stop to think that there might be a reason for both you and Michael being here at the same time?” He asked, watching as Sam prostrated himself at Lucifer’s feet, shaking like a leaf, barely able to breathe out apologies and vows and promises and the same exact words he’d been repeating for what seemed like time immemorial. 

Death’s gaze was hard and steely eyed when it turned back to Lucifer. He saw him as a petulant child, one who breaks his toys in hopes of getting a new and better model. Death knew what it felt like to be bound, and imprisoned, and tied to something. What Lucifer was doing was one part interesting and worth thought and delving into, and one part abhorrent. “Did you ever speak to him? Or has all this time been dedicated to punishing Sam for something he has no control over? For something that is and always will be your fault.” Because humans hadn’t been flawed until Lucifer showed them they could be, had shown them greed and pride and lust and envy. 

Lucifer chuckled. It came out a tad too defensive, “You know what? For all my pride, even I don’t believe I’m significant enough to bear the cross for this one. Sam’s flaws are his own and he’s punished for them because he knows it. Humans’ flaws are their own and they should be punished for them because they don’t know it. If Father wanted puppets, he would have made some. This… This is exhausting.”

He looked down at Sam, and for a brief moment the nagging hacked at his patience and he wanted to reach down his throat and burn his voice box to ashes. He didn’t. He shook his head, “Huh, did I ever speak to him? Oh, I spoke to him for a small eternity, Death. I know him more than he knows himself. And there was always a choice. Always. He could have always said no. Hell is a free country. He wanted  _ my _ protection, he wanted  _ my _ company. I saved him from going insane so you can come here centuries later and lecture me on ultimatums and choices and what Sam wants. I gave him power, I gave him vision, I gave him knowledge, I gave him more kindness than I was ever afforded. I expect better of him because unlike you, unlike my father, I think he’s his own person regardless of what I can do to him. And if he wants to grovel and pray after all, then I give him that too.”

Death sighed and shook his head, taking a step forward. “What I said was far from a lecture. Would Sam have liked this before everything? Before coming down here?” He crouched down to take a better look at Sam, clinging so desperate and afraid to Lucifer. “Or would he be disgusted by this? Dismayed. Guilty.” He tilted his head to the side. “I don’t believe he’s not his own person. But that person is so deeply hidden right now I can barely see it. Whichever word you choose for it, Samael, however you want to quantify it, Sam is not his own. His choices aren’t his. They’re what he’s learned, a Pavlovian response.” 

He stood again and brushed off the lapels of his overcoat, “And I meant  _ Michael _ . Did you ever speak to your brother. Because, from an outsider’s perspective… it seems the right thing to do, doesn’t it? Because if you can learn forgiveness, if you two can do that, then perhaps-”

“Michael?” Lucifer scoffed, “Please. Spare me this one. I did try to speak to Michael. My brother is deaf and blind to anyone and anything that isn’t Dad. I’d let it rest. I know when to give up on a lost cause.” 

“Very well then. I don’t have time to stay here and talk about this,” Death hummed, “I’m leaving with Sam whether you allow it or not. With his soul in tatters or whole.”

And with Death standing so close to Sam, something in Lucifer snapped. Something panicked and ugly and on the verge of blowing up, “And that serves whom, exactly? Because it’s not an either or. You take him right now, like this, and it’s tatters alright. I’ll make sure there’s nothing left of him. I’ll make sure if he ever has the capacity for language again, that he says nothing but my name. I’ll make sure I rip him apart before you pull him out. And I would, Death, because this… no… it’s not fair. And he’s mine. And I’ll keep what’s mine or I’ll destroy it.”

Death narrowed his eyes and said nothing for a few seconds, gently running his thumb over his ring. “And what would it take for us to part on equal terms?” He asked. He was not above bargaining for Sam’s soul. He’d made a deal with Dean and he intended to uphold it. That was just who he was. “To come to an...agreement, on this?” He asked. It was obvious he had more cards in play at the moment, but with Lucifer’s hold on Sam so strong he had no other choice.

There was an expression of utter loss on Lucifer’s face. Very brief, very fleeting, but it lingered for a nanosecond too long and it was noticed. Lucifer didn’t always know what he wanted. Because he wasn’t always extended options. He wanted out. He wanted his vessel. He wanted retribution. He wanted the good old days. None of those was an option. Right now, he wanted to stop feeling so small and so alone and so powerless.

“When you reap their souls, do you ever enjoy it?” He asked slowly. And there was a childish quality to the question. Lucifer remembered wanting to ask that same question eons ago. When relationships weren’t so sour and he wasn’t looked upon like an apocalypse waiting to happen. 

Death paused at the sudden change in tone, and then he frowned. “Not in the way you imagine. But yes. It can be… cathartic. Seeing something to an end. Alleviating pain.” He said after a long pause. “But what does that have to do with anything here?”

He then looked down at Sam. “Let him away from you while we talk. Let him rest.”

Lucifer glanced at Sam, and then he looked away, eyes softening, “No. He doesn’t do well on his own.” There wasn’t the slightest hint of malice in his tone. He sounded more protective than anything, like he genuinely believed he had Sam’s best interest in heart, “Sam needs pain to ground him. It’s not always for me. I don’t suppose you’d understand.”

He snapped his fingers twice in succession, to get the boy’s attention, waited until Sam looked up at him and then he spoke, “Up. And breathe. You have 20 seconds to gather yourself, and then you’ll tell my old friend here why you need me to hurt you right now. And I expect you clear-headed and eloquent enough, Sam.” 

Sam stood, hands shaking before he shoved them in his pockets. He used the twenty seconds he was given to the best of his ability, taking soft calming breaths and relaxing in Lucifer’s presence because if he was going to be given pain, he could deal with that. He needed it so badly. Pain was familiar, expected. Though clear headed and eloquent weren’t always his strong suits, not like this.

“I need him to hurt me because I deserve it.” He began, eyes shifting from Lucifer to Death and back again. “I’ve- it’s- I need it. It feels good… to me. It’s how he loves me. It feels so good, it’s… it’s familiar. I crave it. It’s something I look forward to.”

Death’s brows raised and he leaned forward slightly. “And do you always consent to this? Have you ever said no?”

A flash of doubt crossed Sam’s face, followed by a small amount of shame. Death was intrigued by then, “I always ask for it. I- I came up with the idea.” 

Did he? Sam couldn’t even remember anymore. He was sure that he had. 

“I wanted it. I’ve always wanted it, I never say no.” Because no was a dirty word and it brought so much worse, it was always so much worse when he said no. Or it would be. He didn’t know anymore. “It’s a release. Cathartic.” 

Sam’s voice was shaking and he turned his gaze to Lucifer. “Please.” He begged. “Hurt me, Lucifer, please, please, I need it-“

So much for eloquent.

Lucifer watched silently, the ghost of approval hovering over his face but never quite landing. And when Sam finished, he gave him a small smile. But that was all he gave, and his gaze remained fixed on Death, attentive and calculated, “I’m not parading him. I wouldn’t. I suppose I just find it disrespectful that you’d assume he has no say in what we do here. I forced nothing on him. He could have had Hell, the Hell he jumped into willingly. But he didn’t want Hell, he wanted me. And, surprise surprise, I don’t want Hell either. Something most of you upstairs seem to forget again and again.”

“I don’t work for heaven, Samael.” Death reminded.

Lucifer shifted uncomfortably, and he inched closer to Sam, gave him a kiss on the shoulder to which Sam closed his eyes and leaned into him even closer. Lucifer still addressed Death regardless, “You want to part on equal terms, fine. You can take him when he consents to it. He gives you a ‘yes’ and I’ll fuck off. Sounds fair?”

Death considered, “Yes. It is fair. Is there anything that is off the table for me to do?”

Lucifer breathed this one through his teeth, “Nothing  _ I  _ can’t do. Just to level the playing field.”

“Ah.” Death nodded, thinking for a moment. “Sam?” He asked softly, letting out a heavy sigh when Sam only clutched tighter at Lucifer. “Look at me.”

Sam slowly raised his head, throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“You remember me, yes?” And Sam did, in the vaguest recesses of his memory. Just barely. He nodded.

“I’m here to take you home. Your brother sent me.” Death figured he may as well start with convincing Sam he was real, that this was all for a reason and that it wasn’t a game put forth by Lucifer.

Sam blinked at the word. Brother. Dean. He remembered Dean. He remembered Dean more than anyone else because Lucifer used to play him all those memories. And then Lucifer stopped and Sam assumed Dean was dead. Because it had been so long and everyone he knew must be dead. There was nothing for him outside. No home but here. The very thought twisted his stomach. And Lucifer had promised not to sully Dean’s memory, but he also promised not to “break” him, and Sam didn’t know anymore. Because there were no constants and no foundations to rely on and if this was a test, of course, of course, it would be Dean. And if this was a test and he fails it…

He shook his head slowly, “No. It’s- it’s not possible. So long ago and no one… no one remembers me. No one would remember me.”

Death let out a soft sigh. “It may be hard to remember back so far, and I apologize. But when Dean first returned from hell… it had been forty years for him, rather than four months.” He explained slowly. “Time in the cage, comparatively, is far slower than even that. It hasn’t been very long at all on earth. He remembers you. I promise you that.” His voice was soft and gentle, but there was a weariness behind it that betrayed his age. 

“Everyone that was alive when you jumped in the pit is still there. Bobby Singer has even been resurrected.” He informed lightly, hoping there would be at least some name recognition.

Lucifer crossed his arms and watched blankly, lips pressed and eyes cold. And he watched Sam tremble and stutter and shift left and right like he didn’t know what to do with himself. He intoned his words, like it was a children’s game, like it was a riddle, “Let’s pause to do the math. Just to fact-check. Forty years is 4 months in Hell, that’s, hm, ten years for every month. How many months in three hundred sixty-five thousand seven hundred forty-one days. No calculators-”

“Approximately thirty six thousand five hundred and seventy four.” Death said immediately. “But time passes far slower in the cage. Think… well, just over thirty thousand years per month on earth. You’ve been here little over one year.” He shook his head. “But second guess me all you like.” From his tone it was clear neither of them were free to do that.

Lucifer huffed an indignant chuckle. And he clasped his hands together, cracked his fingers casually. “Thanks. But the question was to you, Sammy, and you buddy just lost a point.”

Sam’s breath caught in his throat. “I didn’t have the chance.” He protested quietly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry-“ He was caught between cowering slightly and marveling at just how long it had been. He’d stopped keeping track...at least thousands of years ago.

“Don’t punish him for my haste.” Death shook his head, looking down at Lucifer.

“I won’t.” Lucifer hummed, “What do we do when we lose points, baby?” And there was an edge to his tone that came across so domestic and yet so fucking menacing. He stared Sam down, and he didn’t need to exaggerate the disappointment or the anger because those were already there. He just lets them flicker behind his eyes.

Sam cringed back, hands shaking as he slowly lowered himself to his knees. “Have to earn them back.” He said softly, pressing his face into Lucifer’s crotch before fumbling to unzip his fly and pull out his cock. His lips were chapped but his enthusiasm and eagerness to pull Lucifer into his mouth and suck like his life depended on it was palpable. He didn’t care that Death was watching because what did he have to be ashamed of when Lucifer had made this so normal, so easy. An everyday affair.

Death watched on, brow creasing as Sam sucked and gave pleading little moans, taking Lucifer to the root with ease and praying silently, begging forgiveness in the arbitrary form of points. It didn’t matter if it was out loud or not, he knew Lucifer heard him. Either that or the archangel could read it in his wide, desperate, tear filled eyes.

Lucifer didn’t particularly derive any physical pleasure from the action. But he enjoyed the enthusiasm, the dedication, the little noises and the distress and being inside Sam in every way that counts, and every way that doesn’t. He fisted his hand in Sam’s hair and pushed his head further down his cock, until he was impaled on it and Lucifer could feel the boy’s throat constricting, tightening around him. He thrusted inside him a few times lazily, and then he stopped, “Stay.”

He looked up at Death and sighed, spoke as if he was entertaining idle conversation, small talk, to pass the time, “You ever tried that? A little overrated.”

“I can’t say that I’ve ever had the urge.” Death let his gaze linger perhaps a little longer than necessary before he looked back up. “It’s an...odd thing.” He decided. “Perhaps not wholly unwelcome, though, under different circumstances.”

If his entire future, or at least, optimistically, the next few millennia, didn’t hang on the line, Lucifer would have found this a little too entertaining. Strangely nostalgic, even. He remembered times when everything had been fresh and new and he’d talk one of his brothers into  _ why not give it a try? Why not? But why not now?  _ And there was something vulgar about this that tempted him, that always tempted him. He never resisted the urge. 

“I don’t see how ‘different circumstances’ will ever present themselves, considering your line of business. And if not today, then when?” __

Death narrowed his eyes. “I’m here on business. And I doubt Dean would take kindly to… this.” Then again, why should he care what Dean thought if Sam would never remember it anyways? It was an interesting path to ponder to say the least. Say he did sample what humanity had to offer. Had a taste of that pleasure. What repercussions, if any, awaited him? And it was yet another way to try to guide Sam to say yes. To get him back to the surface. Any means necessary. That’s what he’d said, wasn’t it? Yes. “You...make a fine point.” He admitted.

And the grin that unfolded on Lucifer’s face was too broad, too amused. He didn’t analyze it too much because, unlike his every move so far, there was no agenda to this past the simple pleasure of it. This may accomplish nothing; it may accomplish something, but it was pretty fucking riveting either way. To watch an entity so ancient, so reserved, partake in something so human and so obscene. And Sam was choking on his cock, his body convulsing, face all tears and snot and saliva and a beautiful messy thing that can’t breathe… He exhaled. 

“Well, then, I insist. Least I could do, you’re my guest after all.” And he yanked Sam’s head away a little too aggressively, “Sammy?”

Sam gasped, blinking rapidly and letting out a soft whine at being pulled away from Lucifer’s cock because he wanted nothing more than to keep at it and bring Lucifer to completion and head his praise and earn those soft, gentle touches he so craved, but he silenced himself quickly. “Yes?” He rasped, staring up at Lucifer like he was a god. To Sam, he was.

“Now, baby, we didn’t do this before. So here’s your chance to impress. I want you on your knees before our guest, asking very nicely, very politely, to suck his cock. Okay?” Lucifer traced a finger-pad against Sam’s lower lip, followed a trail of saliva still thick and wet, “You open up and you take it and you put your heart and soul into it. Do you understand?”

Sam nodded, fighting the urge to chase after Lucifer’s finger with his mouth as he turned to look up at Death.

The entity simply stood there. Impassive, for the moment, but undoubtedly curious. He gave a slight bow of his head to acknowledge Sam, but said nothing. He waited for the human to make his move because, above all things, he didn’t want it to be forced. At least, not on his part.

Sam moved to pull up until Lucifer tsked, so he stilled, for a second, and then he crawled towards Death. And something about it felt dirty, felt wrong, in all the ways Sam forgot how “wrong” felt like. He didn’t question it because it was ordered, but he didn’t understand it. He told himself that if it would please Lucifer then it should please him. He clung to that conclusion and ventured forward. 

Maybe it wasn’t a test, maybe it was a new game. Maybe the point was to play along and be a good obedient whore. Lucifer is bored, Lucifer is so bored and this is entertainment and he should do better, he should really do better. 

He sat back on his heels in front of Death, and no matter how much he reassured himself, there was still this unfamiliarity, and with it came just a hint of humiliation that he forgot he was capable of feeling. 

“May I…” He paused and swallowed, fingers curling and uncurling anxiously, “May I please suck your cock please? Please I wan-want to… I…” And he wasn’t usually this awkward, or this virginal; he dug nails in his skin because he was being stupid and disappointing and it made his heart ache. He tried again, with all the fervor and desperation he could muster, “Please let me suck your cock, please use my mouth. I want to taste you, I want to please you. Please fuck my throat, I’ll be good and warm and so good-- I’ll take it all in, I want to choke on it, please.” 

Death tilted his head to the side and slowly reached down to tilt Sam’s head up, to look down into his eyes. “Go at your own pace.” He murmured, eyes dark and troubled as he thumbed at Sam’s cheek. “This is new. I understand. Don’t worry.” He soothed, hand going back to stroke lightly through Sam’s hair. The rush just from seeing Sam kneeling in front of him was unparalleled. But he couldn’t dream of degrading the human in this position.

He reached down and in an action completely foreign to him, slowly pulled out his cock and gave it a slow stroke. He shuddered, almost surprised. The pleasure wasn’t quite his own- he was wearing a vessel, after all, but it was wholly unique. A jolt that went straight into his being and twisted around. It was so complex and so simple at the same time, so absolutely perfect.

A smile tugged at his thin lips and he lowered his hand, watching Sam intently.

Something cold and tense coiled in Sam’s guts. And he glanced back behind his shoulder, seeking one last bit of reassurance. Lucifer gave it, “Yes.” And Sam dove in. 

Sometimes Lucifer had him lapping and licking and nuzzling on his cock for hours. Sam guessed maybe he should start like that, because what he had in mind, what he was used to, was not gentle. And it was nowhere “at his own pace.” He pushed through the puzzlement and wrapped his lips around foreign glans. He twirled his tongue around it gently, he sucked softly. He wasn’t sure why he was suddenly so hyperaware that he’d never been with men before. That this was not his normal, that he wasn’t sure what he was doing. He wanted Lucifer’s cock down his throat to shut the voices up, and he reprimanded himself for the thought the second it formed. He raised wide apologetic eyes to Death and pushed himself all the way in on his cock. 

Death let out a sharp gasp and nearly doubled over, putting most of his weight on his cane as his free hand tangled itself up in Sam’s hair. He breathed something out in a language long lost to man and barely recognizable even to Lucifer, lazily thrusting his hips forward. It was so strange and so wonderful all at once. Sam’s mouth was perfect. Wet and hot and tight and so perfectly constricting around his member. Wings of twilight and dying stars arched up overhead, perfectly visible to Lucifer and now just barely there for Sam.

Death looked vulnerable. He looked so completely human it was almost scary. His lips parted and he let out a soft moan, eyes slipping shut. “Just like that, Samuel. Yes. You’re perfect.” He murmured, and forced his eyes open to look up at Lucifer, toes curling in his shoes as he did.

Lucifer leaned back against a half-collapsed wall, wreckage of a building Sam must have built and forgotten what for. He watched intently, eyes swimming in a turbulent sea of dark red and temptation. Something about humans, angels, demons, primeval entities, all the same, something about anyone so undone, unfolding and open and so utterly vulnerable was so charming he could barely mask his fixation. 

The first few times with Sam were just as charming. Not anymore, though it never lost its spark entirely. He still enjoyed this a little more than he should. Because if there were ever time to strike a man with his pants down, it was now. Except it was no Man and Lucifer would rather indulge himself and see where the chips shall fall. 

He held his gaze, when Death looked his way. And a smile tugged at the corner of his lips and nestled there. 

Death let out a wavering breath, somewhat mirroring Lucifer’s expression because how could he not when this was so perfect, felt so good compared to eons of not having or experiencing anything like it. Pleasure and submission given so rapidly, without question. He groaned, gripping tighter at Sam’s hair and using it to slowly move him up and down his cock.

He just as quickly wrested his gaze away, though, to look down at Sam as he lightly rocked his hips back and forth, feeling the man’s throat tighten and spasm around his cock.

Sam knew how to do this and how to do it well, when to hold his breath, when to swallow, and the brief moments where he’d be allowed to suck on air freely through his nose. He barely gagged at all, but tears still slipped in earnest. Whatever that was, it was nowhere near as brutal as Lucifer used him, and Sam found himself slightly grateful for what, to him, counted as unearned kindness. The sentiment triggered a wave of unsettling guilt. He knew he was supposed to suffer. If he wasn’t suffering then he wasn’t trying hard enough. 

He fidgeted slightly and pushed himself a little harder, a little faster on Death’s cock, so eager to please and prove himself good enough. He tried to maintain a rhythm, to escalate velocity gradually, and this was still so new and unfamiliar because the man, the being, the illusion(?) was panting and groaning and Sam wasn’t used to the verbal cues and responsiveness. Lucifer barely ever gave him that. 

When Death came he nearly surprised himself, spilling himself down Sam’s throat with a stuttered groan. He’d seen universes born out of nothing and he’d guided them to fall to dust, and this was like an explosion that rivaled even that. A million supernovas all at once, all in one single moment, all brought by a simple human soul. He tightened his grip in Sam’s hair and held him flush against him, eyes gone wide.

He had never understood the human drive for sex. Of course it had made sense biologically, things had a natural order to them- God did know what he was doing, after all, but he’d understood neither the taboo of it or the parts of it that didn’t result directly in procreation. He, of course, fully understood now. It was a beautiful thing. Precious. Certainly sacred.

He stared down at Sam’s twisted, frayed soul and his face fell slightly, emotions flashing across his face in waves before slowly, he eased his cock out of Sam’s mouth and stowed himself.

“Are you feeling alright?” He asked, slowing his breathing and gently tilting Sam’s head up so he could meet his eyes.

Sam didn’t know how to answer that, his shoulders relaxed just a bit, and he muttered uneasily as he sniffed and tried to catch his breath, “Tha-thank you…” and it sounded more like a question. 

And Lucifer stepped forward then, whistling playfully, crossing a proverbial border that separated the space into two territories. He did that casually, intrusive and invasive and inching a little too close. There was still that glint of amusement and damn near fascination in his eyes. “Hm. Had a good time, did we?” He asked Death, gesturing to Sam with a nod to stay where he was. 

“Yes.” There was no hint of embarrassment or nervousness in Death’s voice. “Though he seemed to expect more force on my end. I didn’t see the need.” He gently smoothed his hand through Sam’s hair once more, before pulling it away. “Humans are such remarkable creatures. Even you must admit that. For all their flaws…” He marveled, shaking his head.

“And even you must admit, there’s undeniable charm to taking something so  _ remarkable  _ and owning it so fully, rightfully, if just for a moment.”

Lucifer stood next to Death then, barely a foot between them, and he leaned forward slightly. He whispered as he spread inviting arms, radiating with approval, for the boy on his knees, “As for ‘more power,’ don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

Sam looked up at Lucifer and at the invitation, all but leapt into his arms. Servicing Death had made him conflicted- scared, even, because it was so far from what he had been used to for so many years. He clutched at Lucifer’s back, burying himself in the archangel’s chest because he needed to be that close, he needed to soak in the approval and love he got because what else did he have? Acceptance, praise from Lucifer was better than any drug because he knew deep down he didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve the soft touches or the oh so rare kind words because he wasn’t good enough. But he ate it up and reveled in it regardless.

Death let out a soft sigh. He wouldn’t be able to talk to Sam like this. Not at all. But he wouldn’t be leaving empty handed. The look he gave Lucifer was all he needed to say just that.

Lucifer lowered himself down to the ground, pulling Sam down with him. He sat amidst the debris, legs slightly spread, knees bent up, with Sam lying between them, leaned onto his chest. He carded fingers through the boy’s hair, hummed sweet nothings in his ear.

He looked up at Death, face morphing into something soft and slightly distressed, “Stay a bit, will you? Take your time, take the opportunities you’re given, get your ‘yes’ or don’t. It’s thirty thousand years for every month, hm? You’ll still make it in time for dinner.”

Death arched a delicate brow and looked down at Lucifer. He knew the boy was stalling. But at the same time, he couldn’t blame him. His eyes drifted up to look at the nothingness behind Sam’s shattered illusions and closed his eyes for a second. It was terrible, and even after all these years he still didn’t quite agree with God’s chosen punishment for his most loved angel. It was showboating, overstepping. But Death wouldn’t say that here. He didn’t need to feed into Lucifer’s delusions. “Of course.” He reached into his overcoat and pulled out a pocket watch that would bewilder any human that looked at it, before he replaced it in his pocket and looked down at Sam and Lucifer curiously. And for the moment, he said nothing, but his agreeance to Lucifer’s proposition was written on his face, in his body language. 

There was momentary relief on Lucifer’s face that seeped into his everything, shone behind his vessel and had Sam purring in his embrace. And he didn’t mask it, he didn’t conceal it, knew whatever game they’ve been playing so far was rigged from the get-go, that he was just biding his time. But Lucifer knew how to feed on instant gratification and celebrate small victories; sometimes the small victories were all he could hope for. He let the temporary truce placate him.

And Sam’s eyes were unfocused and glassy, and they drifted to Death and looked right through him, like he was still not real enough, and yet there enough to acknowledge on forward.

  
  
  
  
  



	2. With These We Shall Be Content

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam’s need is more than a want. It’s a compulsion, an addiction. But with the addition of a third party, more than tension and jealousies flare, and turns out fallen angels have feelings too.

Lucifer wanted to show Death around, he said. He said there were corners of the world that, even utterly destroyed, still shined so bright. That made Sam proud, because he made it, because something beautiful survived Lucifer’s wrath, but it also puzzled him to a level beyond his capacity to withstand. Sam watched them walking a few steps ahead, discussing something old and foreign and he couldn’t seem to wrap his head around. And Lucifer told him to stay close so he did. He followed behind, always less than two feet away from Lucifer. And they’ve been walking for so long, and talking for so long, Sam thought his brain would burst and his legs would fail him. 

The guest, the visitor, Lucifer’s old friend, the Angel of Death, this new intricate game or whatever it was, it stayed and it was poking holes in Sam’s reality and the very foundation of everything he knew and accepted; and he wasn’t sure he was playing it right. He wasn’t sure he was doing well. Because all he wanted to do was have Lucifer’s full attention, consuming and blinding as it always was, and be fucked raw into certainty and oblivion. 

He kept trained tired eyes on the archangel, and something within him was itching for contact and touch and pain and reassurance. He fought the urge to interrupt because it was impolite. Fought it until his chest was heaving and his skin was crawling with need, until punishment sounded more and more preferable to being left to his own devices, to think himself into a panic attack and crumble. 

“Sorry, sorry, I… I need-”

He grasped at Lucifer’s hand and his face contorted into a lost childish expression, terrified beyond reason when nothing, nothing in the status quo was particularly threatening.

“Lucifer, please, want…”

And Lucifer knew what this was because he knew how to trigger it. Knew how to ignore him just enough, knew how to give less than the bare minimum, loved it when the urgent craving manifested itself like an addiction and  _ asked for it. _

Death paused in his speaking and tilted his head to the side, looking down at Sam. At how frantic he was, clinging to Lucifer’s hand like a lifeline.

It had only been a few hours, perhaps a day of walking and talking with Lucifer. About the cage, about heaven, about his father. All remained relatively civil safe for the more sensitive topics, when Lucifer’s wings would flare up and his grace would roil like a storm behind the eyes of his vessel.

Looking back Death now remembered Sam cowering as far away as he could while still being close enough to be considered, well, close. For a moment he couldn’t fathom what might be wrong as he looked down at Sam, before he came to a half realization. Sam was reliant on Lucifer and yet, here he was, stealing the only company Sam had had for tens of thousands of years away in a heartbeat.

Of course, he didn’t know what Sam really wanted. That would likely surprise him more than anything. “Ah.” He said after a moment of pondering that to him had felt like hours of deep thought. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to take up so much of Lucifer’s time.” He said, taking a small step back as if to show Sam he was welcome to join in. “Terribly inconsiderate of me.”

Lucifer curled his fingers around Sam's, in both support and a hint of unvoiced warning, and gave him an encouraging nod, “What do you want, Sammy? Full sentences.”

And Sam knew Lucifer loses his patience quickly when he can’t seem to find his words. And, all things considered, he wouldn’t mind so much if he ended up bearing the brunt of aggravated patience. Anything was always better than nothing.  He gathered the shambles that were his thoughts and considered for a moment just asking for kindness, for conversation, for kisses and soft touches and love. He didn’t because he wouldn’t be so entitled. 

“Can we- can we do torture today? I want, I want uh… want you to hurt me, please.” 

And the third presence in their made-up universe didn’t really factor in in this equation. Sam had this sense of dread about him, and intense bouts of jealousy that he didn’t translate well, could only understand as confusion. He wanted to earn Lucifer’s attention as much as he wanted the distraction of screaming his heart out for him. 

And Lucifer just melted with fondness when Sam referred to “torture” as an activity that they “do” together. This one never got old. But Lucifer was genuinely more interested in their present company’s take on this. And this, he didn't hide either.

“Hmm. We can, but we’re not going to prioritize your needs over hospitality, Sam. If our guest doesn’t mind, I’ll give you what you want.” 

Death looked puzzled, for a second. “...Would you like me to leave you two alone?” He asked after a moment’s pause, eyes dark and searching Sam’s soul. He didn’t know why. He doubted he would understand without seeing, but it seemed like something that should remain private.

Like the sex. Humans kept that private for a reason, maybe this was much the same. He knew some humans enjoyed similar things on a much less grand scale. A much less deadly scale.

He took a step back, brow creased for a second before his expression once again cleared. 

And Sam would like some alone time. Sam would like all the alone time in all of eternity. But a single glance at the tinge of dissatisfaction on Lucifer’s face had him reconsidering. This happened often, even when the need for it never before presented itself. Silent communication, brief eye-contact that delivered the message, picking up on what Lucifer wanted, what he’d like to see, without a single word of its nature.

It hurt, in all the petty human ways jealousy hurt. But Sam knew better than to let his feelings cloud his judgment. Because it was ridiculous, because Death was either an illusion made up entirely to mess with him, and how Lucifer loves to mess with his head, in which case jealousy made no sense whatsoever. Or Death was Death, and he was really here and… Sam interrupted the thought before it wrecked him.

He shook his head violently. This time addressing Death; he clenched his fists beside him and kept himself perfectly cordial, perfectly polite and presentable,  “Would you please stay? Please, we- I would like you to stay. I would love it if-- if you stay and watch.”

Lucifer chimed in casually, “You would also love it if he participates, if, when, he ever gets the urge.”

Sam nodded without the slightest hint of hesitation, “Yes, yes, please, if you’d like… I would appreciate it. I would appreciate it so much.”

And not that this would be in the slightest bit relatable to the archangel or the horseman, but the proposition came across as some sort of invitation. Like a couple in a party tiptoeing around the awkwardness of pulling a third into their play session. It was odd and yet domestic on every level.

“...Ah. I suppose I will watch, then, if that is what you’d like.” Death said softly. He gripped his cane down below the head and used it as if he were dragging a chair forward to sit in and suddenly, the chair was right there.

It was much easier than people let on to create something out of nothing. Humans could do it if they tried hard enough in dreams, and once in a hundred thousand years even on earth. The last one had been promptly burned at the stake. 

One just had to believe in it hard enough, and it would happen. Much like gods or tulpa or a whole smattering of things that didn’t matter in the Cage. Death leaned back and the material shifted under him as if it were much older than just a few seconds, much more familiar.

He rested his cane against the inside of his thigh and watched on, brow raised as if he were about to ask them to get on with it. He wouldn’t be so rude out loud.

Hundreds of centuries of suffering under his belt, Sam should have been desensitized enough to not bat an eye when it comes to pain at this point. Except Lucifer was meticulous about never letting that happen. Would be too boring and Lucifer planned an entire eternity around avoiding boredom. He still loved it when Sam begged for mercy, he still loved it when Sam genuinely wanted it to stop, even when he asked for it. He still loved it when the boy couldn’t control his tongue and would scream obscenities and offer his everything and promise his firstborn if he could give it. 

And not that he held back on inflicting levels of pain so devastating, maddening and all consuming and would fuck sanity and motor and cognitive functions and the very foundation of what makes a human human out of Sam. He did, but he did it sparingly. Never too much and never for too long. But most of the time, he stuck to simple. To the kind of suffering where the boy still had language to communicate, still had his wits about him to recognize that it could get worse. It could get so much worse, and that it wouldn't this time around because Lucifer could be, was, often kind. 

Lucifer was all business suddenly, and there was an air of enthusiasm about him, like this was a hobby that he took seriously, took pleasure in, like it was something he cherished. And he was all eyes for Sam then, full attention in all its glory,  “Take everything off and kneel up. One ankle over the other and grab back on your heels.”

Sam stilled at that, though a grateful smile graced his face. Slowly, carefully, he stripped. He didn’t give a show in the way one might expect. Not sensual. Just a slow baring of everything. His skin wasn’t bare- Lucifer left him scars nearly every time. Reminders, presents, whatever he wanted to call them.  His chest and arms were littered with them. But Lucifer was kind enough to leave his face blank no matter how many times it had been mangled or torn or peeled off so slowly and methodically.

He stooped to hitch his jeans down, baring himself completely. His gaze was focused and steely because he was so concentrated, he needed to make Lucifer happy. He needed to be perfect.

He knelt down on the cracked asphalt and got into the desired position with ease, at least at first. He bowed his head and reached back to grip at his ankles, grunting. He slowly looked up at Lucifer, waiting for his next command.

Lucifer regarded him neutrally, nothing on his face to indicate approval or lack thereof. And then he went to him and lowered himself down to sit in front of him, legs crossed, very amicable, demeanor so easygoing and engaged. 

He smoothed a finger-pad over Sam’s inner thigh, barely brushed against his soft cock. And then his hand retreated,  “Let’s talk about our feelings, Sam.”

Sam bit his lip, nodding slowly. He didn’t know what to say, he could barely quantify his feelings anymore. “It’s...confusing.” He started, brow creasing. “There’s a lot. I’m sorry.” He breathed and squirmed a little, eyes fixed on the ground in front of Lucifer. “I don’t know.” He breathed.

“I’m confused, and- and I’m- I think I’m jealous because I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what’s going on, I don’t know if he’s real or not and I don’t know why you’re doing this if he’s not. Am I not enough?” He suddenly spilled out, voice breaking as he did. He was shaking, breath coming out in sharp gasps and hiccups as tears headed in his eyes. 

“Yeah, ‘confusing’ and ‘I don’t know’ won’t work. We’ll figure them out together, yes?”

Most of the information thrown around in Sam’s answer was nothing new. Lucifer ignored it because he wanted to dig deeper, but he held onto “jealous” and kept it aside for a little later.

And Lucifer was toying with a box in his lap that wasn’t there a second ago, hand fiddling with clinking metal. He pulled a needle out of it, 5 inches long and about half an inch thick. And he wasn't looking at Sam anymore because he was too focused watching the needle burn searing hot, an angry shade of red, tucked between two fingers and waiting. 

“How do we… feel about our little sexapade with Death earlier?”

He was conversational as he rested the sharp edge of the needle on Sam’s inner thigh, the exact spot he was touching a moment ago. It burnt, no big deal, didn’t pierce yet. 

Sam flinched, but didn’t react further than that as he stared down at the needle with apprehension shining in his eyes. Somehow through all these years Lucifer still managed to come up with new surprises, new torments. There were of course old favorites, but sometimes he felt like every time he asked it was something new.

“Conflicted.” He swallowed thickly. “It was so different. So different from you. He didn’t-“ He sighed heavily. “And I don’t know how to do it when it’s not you, and I was scared. Is he real? Is this real?”

Death tilted his head to the side as he watched, tapping his fingers in a steady beat of four on the arm of his chair.

Lucifer hummed placidly, and then he tapped the sharp edge against the same spot again, “So I’m going to push this here-” The needle lifted, Lucifer moved it two inches to the left, “-and it’s coming out of here-” It lifted again, Lucifer moved it to the right side of Sam’s scrotum, “-then in here…” one more inch to the left, “...and out of here. And then it stays.”

He looked up at Sam, “And as I do that, I want you to tell me what you think, Sam. Do you think he’s real?”

Needle went back to the startline and was pushed slowly inside. It was hot enough to cauterize the wound as it made it. No bleeding happened externally. Inner flesh closed around the metal as it pierced through, stuck to it and cooked. 

Sam yelled out in pain, then. Because as it went in it stuck to the inside of his flesh and needed even more pressure to push it home, ripping and sealing as it went. “Yes!” He cried out, but he knew better than to move his hands, than to get out of position because if he wasn’t content in this one Lucifer will force him into one that’s far worse.

He knew deep down that Death must be real but he almost didn’t want to accept it, because that brought the conundrum of thinking about going Outside and that was one of the most painful things he could dare to do. Because sometimes he still saw Dean. On the rare occasions Lucifer wasn't there’s to love him or to rip him to pieces or to fuck his brains out. And Dean was derisive and cruel and never on his side because all those years ago, he’d said yes. And he’d allowed all this to happen. And he’d begged for it, and it really was disgusting and pathetic and awful and he just couldn’t stop, he could never stop, and right then tears were rolling down his face and he was howling when the needle drove through his scrotum and it was perfect and awful and painful and loving all at once and it was too much. Even though he’d undergone worse. It was the situation that did him in.

“Aha. Well, Sam…”

Lucifer left the needle at that, pulled another one from the box and watched it heat up slowly. “You know how I love your ‘yes’s, don’t you? But I’m expecting more than a one word answer to this question. Let’s try again.” 

He moved to Sam’s other thigh to repeat the same process. Always had a thing for symmetry. 

Sam threw his head back and wailed. “He’s real- he’s real, he has to be real I kn-know he is, please, please, Lucifer- please-“ He gasped, and he couldn’t take it anymore. Burning, sliding, stabbing, ripping pain all at once, concentrated in such a small area it was agony. 

He unclasped his hands and brought them around to claw desperately at Lucifer’s wrist, tears streaming down his face.

Lucifer clicked his tongue, drove the second needle all the way through its decided course and left it there, and then he looked up at Sam. disappointed, “You had to know I won’t take kindly to moving out of position. Why, Sammy, why make it worse?”

He sighed, another needle, he twirled it scorching hot between his fingers. “Here. Atone. Under your nail. And then you hold position, and then we try again.”

Sam shook his head, face contorted in fear and shame and agony as he slowly raised his shaking hands. “I’m sorry.” He croaked. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry-“ He grunted around the lump in his throat, breath hitching as he held out his hands. One to take the needle, one to drive it into.

And as Lucifer handed him the needle, tilted his head expectantly,  Sam took it and it sizzled against his skin, and he knew he needed to act quickly so he held out his pointer finger and placed the tip of the thick needle a little ways away from the nail and shoved it in with all the force he could muster.

One could barely hear the splintering bone over his anguished scream and he fell to brace himself on his hands and knees. He went instinctively to curl his fingers in but that just made it hurt more and he was left sobbing, choking on his own breath as he struggled to get back up into position. 

Lucifer gave him a minute. One hand prepping another needle and the other combing through Sam’s hair lightly, fondly. “That’s it, good boy, you got it.”

Sam pressed into the source of comfort, chest jerking unevenly with each panicked breath before he slowly eased himself up and back into position, whimpering softly.

And Death watched on, lips pursed into a thin line and brow creased as he saw them so carefully walk the razor’s edge between hurt and comfort, love and hate. It was almost a thing of beauty, to him.

“Next one is interesting…”  Lucifer mused to himself, leaning forward to scan between the boy’s legs. His eyes darted up to him, “What does it mean, to you, that he’s real?”

And he pushed the fourth needle a few inches above, and a few inches to the left of the first one. And then out, and then this time straight through Sam’s cock, and then out, and then into his other thigh. He was a lot slower, a little experimental, trying to get the aesthetic right. 

Sam cried out weakly, breath whistling out through his nose. “He- he- hhhhngh Lucifer-“ He wailed, throwing his head back. “N-n-not from here- not trapped here- fuck please, it hurts so bad, Lucifer-“

Lucifer splayed his palm over cock and balls and needles, something more fond than cruel gleaming bright in his eyes. And fingers curled and he squeezed, tight and brutal, “Yes?”

Sam screamed. And it was beautiful. The arch of his back, the sweat beading on his brow, his hands and feet held so carefully so he didn’t have to hurt himself again. “S-“ And he stopped himself because it was a guessing game with saying ‘no’ and ‘stop’ to Lucifer because most of the time it only egged him on further. “Make it- hhh make it stop please, please-“

“Not yet.”

Lucifer didn't ease the pressure, not one bit. He watched the boy suffer for a moment, took a still picture of every little twitch, every curve in bones and features and lips parted and wailing. If he leaves…  _ when _ he leaves, Lucifer will miss him. He will miss him so much. 

“Are you happy, Sammy? Do I make you happy?”

“Yes- yes- you do, please-“ Sam whimpered, thighs twitching and that just made it worse. “I’m happy- I love you, Lucifer, please…” He screwed his eyes shut and his lower lip wobbled as he burst into a fresh bout of tears.

Lucifer uncurled his fingers and was hands off in a flash. He licked his lower lip, “Do you think you can make yourself cum like this?” 

Sam swallowed thickly, staring down at himself. “M-Maybe?” He furrowed his brow. “I’ll try. I’ll try.” He promised.

Lucifer patted his own thigh, “Come here and try then. I’ll help.”

Sam nodded and used his undamaged hand to drag himself across the asphalt. When he reached Lucifer he collapsed forward weakly, whimpering.  And Lucifer gathered the broken pile of human and damage and need, pulled him in and wrapped his arms around him like a blanket, one hand brushed softly over Sam’s cock.

Sam whined, trying to jerk his hips before letting out a sharp cry of pain. “Gh- fuck-“ He hissed, cock slowly growing hard despite himself. “Hurts.” He said, as if it weren’t so painfully obvious. His eyes were fixed on Lucifer, and he could almost see the grace hidden behind his vessel, he wanted to reach out and touch it and hold it close to his chest and never let go. His gaze drifted back to Death before he instantly lowered it. Whether it was out of respect or fear or shame he didn’t know.

But the way Death was watching... it became less cold and impassive and more and more a mix between curious and predatory, ancient and as of yet unexplored desire roiling beneath the surface. 

And Lucifer buried his face in Sam’s hair, nuzzled softly, left trails of kisses all the way down to Sam’s ear, neck, collarbone. The hand still close enough to Sam’s cock didn't meddle much for a minute, just the smallest of brushes, featherlight, and then he slapped Sam’s thigh lightly, “Up, just a little bit.” And Sam pulled up just a little bit and Lucifer’s fingers propped at his  perineum, teasingly, and then straight between his ass cheeks. He didn't enter him, just scratched with a fingernail lazily.

“You said you feel jealous, Sammy. Why?”

Sam let out a soft groan, shaking slightly. He was overwhelmed. The soft touches enough to push him over the edge of pain, the teasing enough to get him fully hard despite the needles. “It’s stupid.” He breathed, shaking his head.”I’m sorry.” He hadn’t even said why yet. “You s-spent so much time with him, talking to him, didn’t even look at me. I’m jealous and se-elfish and awful and I’m sorry.” His voice broke.

“No, no, we don’t apologize for how we feel, do we, Sammy?” Lucifer chided softly, finger-pad pressing flat against the boy's asshole, “I understand. And  _ I’m sorry. _ ” He lied, but it sounded so sweet and so honest, because sometimes even Lucifer believed himself when he lied.

Sam sobbed at that, face a broken smile against Lucifer’s chest as he pushed his hips back with an anguished whine. He laughed. A broken sound that was full all at the same time, happy and sad all balled up in a mess of frayed human emotion that hadn’t been right or sane for centuries. “Thank you.” He breathed, voice airy because he’d simply forgotten to breathe. “Thank you I love you- I love you so much, so much-“

Sometimes, Lucifer liked to delude himself that this was real, this was pure and authentic and enough. That Sam’s love was good and honest and something he can take and keep and feed on, let it slip between the cracks and mend eons of abandonment and resentment and rage he didn’t know what to do with or where else to bury. Other times it infuriated him, because it never measured, it never compared to what he had, what he could have had, what he lost and what he’d never earn again. It infuriated him because it was fickle and ephemeral and broken and there was no divinity to it, no eternity, as much as he tried to inject gallons of his own in it. 

For the moment though, he let it satiate him. And he believed it with all his being. 

He pushed a knuckle past the muscle and fingered Sam slowly and indulgently, soft pressure on his inner walls and nothing further, no invasion, no wrecking him and turning him from the inside out. “Love you too. Now relax for me. Don’t fight the pain, ride it, let it burn through you, use it, employ it. Just like that, baby.”

Sam moaned and relaxed boneless against Lucifer, letting out soft whimpering moans and clenching down weakly. It was barely anything and it was just so perfect because for once it was gentle, and kind, and he really did believe Lucifer, he believed it with every fiber of his broken soul because Lucifer himself believed the lies so desperately, sometimes, and it was oh so easy to get the lines blurred between fantasy and reality in a world that didn’t even exist, suspended in a maze of nothingness. Crumbled and burning around them and Sam didn’t care because he was in that perfect moment of pleasure and bliss and love.

And Lucifer knew Sam’s body in all the ways one knows their own and then some. Because in every way that mattered, it was his. His vessel and his boy-king and his favorite toy and project and investment. He dug further for the button to press, to give Sam that extra push he needed, the help he promised. Because he always helped. Even when he ruined him, he still believed it served a purpose, that it kept them honest and intimate, that it taught Sam something and taught him something and brought them closer. Because no one else would understand how Lucifer needed to bond, or the hundred different ways he immersed himself in a soul and made it an ideology and a mission and a drawing board to ink the future that was stolen from him on. 

“Now a little faster, Sammy. It’s okay that it hurts. It’s okay. Embrace it.”

Sam cried out weakly as he ground his hips back into Lucifer’s hand, precum starting to leak from the tip of his cock. It was so much, all at once, he almost couldn’t take it. It was almost so much it hurt. “Please.” He breathed, panting heavily and jerking his hips with a pained yelp. “More, please, I need you. Want to see you, wanna feel you.”

Lucifer smiled.

And before Sam could blink, the solid mass of Lucifer’s physical manifestation dissolved around him, and it was a burst of light and cold flames and grace so bright running in rivers through valleys of dark and gold and ruins of all that was ancient and ethereal and divine. And it was music and history and flashes of the universe being born. Lucifer breathed song and color and damnation, inked himself into the boy’s very soul, a whiff and an echo of Heaven’s gates and the darkest pits of Hell and a bedtime story with the happiest of a thousand happily ever afters. 

Sam clutched impossibly tight to it, eyes wide and bright and staring up into the ineffable microcosm that was Lucifer tarnished grace and burnt wings and all he was, he was beautiful. Inexplicably so. The kind of beauty you realize when you look up at the sunset- exactly like that. It was one of the closest things you could compare the lighter parts of Lucifer to, because he had been heaven’s light and even after the fall he still shone as bright as a thousand stars.

Sam’s soul mirrored that, in a way. Its shine cut through the blackness of the cage like a razor. But looking down at himself and back up at the archangel he felt infinitesimally small and insignificant and nothing more than a bacterium on the precipice of something far behind its meager existence because Lucifer was just that big and powerful and amazing and terrifying all at once.

Tears streamed down his face and he tried to push himself closer because he so desperately wanted to belong to Lucifer, to be with Lucifer, grace Intertwined with soul but Lucifer had never allowed it because at that point, there really wouldn’t be any Sam left and he still needed something to play with.

He came all over his chest with a shout and doubled over, sobbing weakly and screwing his eyes shut because even at this point if he looked for too long it was still too much.

It never ceased to amaze Lucifer how much, how easily, the very sight of him had the boy curled in a ball weeping with absolute awe. Because Lucifer was always beautiful, in Heaven and in Hell and with Lilith and his demons and for every being designed to bear witness to what he truly is and not crumble. And yet something about Sam’s response to him still rang so special, so utterly consumed and entranced. Lucifer looked at his father the same way once, blind with love and aching to be swallowed whole by the light. It was the simple fact that he didn't look at his father this way anymore that terrified him. Even when there was still a part of him that would always  _ want,  _ even when he knew his father no longer deserved it, and that on all accounts, he had been nothing but deserving with Sam.

It gratified him beyond belief and he loved it. Loved the simplicity of it, to be seen and adored so intensely. And it was tempting to always be there, to always have that, but Lucifer wouldn't fall into his father’s patterns, wouldn't separate himself so completely from his subjects until he became a fairytale and a half-forgotten myth. It would crush him.

And so by the time Sam opened his eyes again, Lucifer was in a vessel again, crouching next to him and combing approval through his hair, “I’m so very proud of you.”

And Sam was fully healed, physically, that is.  He was still crying, shaking, clutching at Lucifer’s shirt and screwing his eyes shut because he could still see the afterimages of it burned into his retinas, because he could still feel the spark and hum of unrestrained grace in the air.

And at the simple praise he slumped down, dazed and strained smile on his face as he arched into Lucifer’s gentle touch like a cat stretching in a sunbeam. “Thank you.” He croaked, voice breaking. “Thank you.”

Lucifer breathed out. Something he never had to do, like every human bit of body language and biology he never needed to display but did purely for Sam’s benefit. For the familiarity and the intimacy of it. Sam would still panic on the very far and inbetween moments when Lucifer didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, didn’t stir. The way Michael was every time they saw him. 

“Take a minute, Sammy. Rest. Breathe. You did so well.” 

And he pulled up and turned away from him with that. And he walked to Death like he just handled a fussy child that he still valued so much but did get time-consuming sometimes. 

“So he  _ does  _ believe you’re real. Point for you, then.”

“And he treats you like a god. I’d say we’re tied.” Death hummed and stood. “Quite a display you put on there.” He remarked, looking down as Sam curled into a small ball and wrapped his arms around himself and started to fall asleep. 

“You knew he’d ask for it. Didn’t you? And you didn’t stop to intervene. If you had looked at him only once while we were talking, I’m sure he’d have been placated.” Death said. “And yet, you’ve chosen to show me perhaps one of the most intimate things you can experience here.”

He crouched down to look down at Sam and ran two fingers over the swell of his back. “Why?” He asked as Sam leaned just barely into it.

Lucifer didn't filter his answer, didn't deny the accusation nestled in the question, “Part of me wants you to understand. Part of me thinks you might.”

“Understand what, Lucifer? I would like for you to be specific.” Death looked up and both of them knew full well he knew exactly what Lucifer was asking. He just wanted to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. “You can be plain with me, here. I would prefer it if you were.”

Lucifer pressed his lips, like he was struggling with this. Because he did struggle with this. He did. There were corners of his infinity so absolutely drained and exhausted, too tired of searching and digging and rummaging for a place in a universe he helped build, to fit himself in and just be. 

“I am what I am, and I’m as good to him as I know how. Your standards, your values, your moral system, it’s human and small and I don’t understand it; and I don’t believe it’s meant for me. It’s not meant for Father. It’s not meant for you.”

And then he was biting his lower lip, looking all at loss for words, and it was such a contrast from minutes before, because he did look like a child then. Trapped in a corner and antagonized and not sure what to apologize for because he didn't believe he did anything wrong. 

“Walk a mile in my shoes, it’s all I ask for. Because no one ever seems to consider that I still exist down here, that the world goes round and round and I’m here. And I’m plenty of things but self-sufficient isn’t one of them. I… need him. And I take care of him. And don’t tell me if you came here and found him on a swing in a replica of his childhood home garden living his best life, that it would have changed anything, that you wouldn’t have taken him anyway.”

He huffed, eyes drifting back and forth between Sam on the ground and the being before him. And he didn't want to plead but it almost sounded like he did. 

“So, yes, I take pleasure where I can find it. And be my guest if you’d like to sample that and then judge accordingly. But it’s not a grand evil scheme for me, it’s all I have. It’s- it’s all we both have.”

“Walk a mile in your shoes?” Death asked, tone growing just a little darker. “I’m sorry, Lucifer, I didn’t know I would have to remind you I know what it’s like to be bound, no thanks to you. And there I did not have the luxury of playing pretend.” He said, eyes narrowed.

“I would like to continue to be civil here, but if you’re going to be so presumptions as to undermine my experience and attempt to know my morals I will toss you so much further into this godforsaken pit that you won’t be able to hear yourself beg, and I will take Samuel and that will be the end of it.” And all of the false light that illuminated that dull corner of nothingness seemed to fade away.

“I am not here to give you another distraction. By all accounts you don’t deserve one. Not from me, not from your father, not from Sam. What you need,” He tapped his cane on the asphalt, “Is to finally grow up. Because you’re still a shrieking child breaking the only thing that was made perfect for him and refusing to see the error of his ways. Do you understand me, Lucifer? Have I made myself clear?”

And Lucifer trembled. Not the vessel, not the visage of human but so much more that carried itself around the cage like it owned it. No, Lucifer did. In all his light and in all his dimensions, something young and terrified cowered and flinched. And Lucifer hated this, hated it with eons of fire that never ceased to burn him even outside the cage. Since the moment he lost Father’s favor and fear coiled itself within him and never left. Because Lucifer knew the futility of standing head to head with something bigger too, something that could crush him. And for all his pride, he didn't conceal that acknowledgment. 

“Yes. Forgive me, I overstepped. I’m sorry.”

He turned away from Death, eyes surveying the surroundings, solid illusions that remained so frail, but were something. Something other than the abyss. A layer above nothingness that he would have lost his mind millenia ago if he didn’t have. He rooted his feet in the ground, let himself experience the weight and mass and gravity of what he built of himself, concepts that didn’t exist until he made them here. And he pushed through the waves of utter panic whirling like a tornado through his grace. It took him a minute to govern the chaos wreaking havoc at his very core. To quell the urge to scream, WHERE? To scream, WHAT FOR? To rip his wings out and demand the “growth” and the time and reconciliations that are forever out of his grasp. Even if he wanted them, even if he begged for them. The cage offered none. 

And then he shifted to face Death again. This time, his tone was a lot less antagonizing. 

“Help me understand something, please. You say Sam was made for me, that Father made him perfect, for me. Where does Sam fit in this plan? As what, the vessel? Skin to wear? Where does his soul fit in Father’s plan for me and Michael. In Father’s good and righteous plan. How’s it better to…”

He paused, overwhelmed. And he tried again, tried to keep his tone even, to stay calm. To not give in to the insistent ever-present siren-call that was the darkness within him, whispering his name, always, always. 

_ Samael… _

_ Annihilate.... _

_ Devour… _

_ All yours for the taking.  _

He shook his head, “How’s it better, virtuous, for Sam to stop existing as I wear him, than… to be with me?”

Death placed a gentle hand on Lucifer’s shoulder. “That would be a question for your father, wouldn’t it? And neither of us are on speaking terms with Him.” He murmured.

“You spoke to Sam. While he was your vessel. I envision a partnership like that, though I may be wrong. Shared control. You become him just as much as he becomes you.” Death said, voice softening slightly. “But not here. Neither of you are in your right mind. I can feel it. I can feel it affecting  _ me. _ ”

“And no matter how much you need to grow or change, this was never the place for it. You needed a firm hand, not to sit in the corner while you lost everything precious to you. I would have protested this if I was there. Nothing is perfect, especially not your father, and I doubt he will ever absolve you or apologize.”

“You’re not evil. You’re right on that mark. The way I see it the scale for judging everything is rigged and sin is a lie based on an arbitrarily thrown together moral system. For the crime of loving your father you were to never see him again. For the crime of standing up to a grand scheme that made him feel like a puppet wielded by a lonely middle schooler with fat, clumsy fingers, Sam earned your wrath.”

“Don’t pretend it’s love. Not all the time. You need someone to feel like you did. Burned and alone.” Death reached up and to the casual observer, carded his hands through nothing.

“You were meant to be social creatures. When was the last time someone truly loved you, Lucifer?” He asked softly, carefully brushing a feather that was out of alignment back in place. “Because you’re still so prideful, I doubt you would ever let Sam see you break down. Not fully. It would crush him worse than your forgotten spat before I came. To know he’s not the only one that’s weak here.”

Death sighed softly. “What I mean to say, Lucifer.” He started, before nodding to himself. “Allow me to take a load off. Talk to me. I’ll listen. Forgive my anger, earlier. Because it’s….undeserved. I cannot expect you to grow up without a father or your brothers.”

This, whatever this was, kindness or understanding or compassion or an opportunity to be heard, was so utterly unfamiliar and foreign it struck Lucifer mute, stunned him. All his defences flared up in tandem, imploded inwards like an inflammation. The vulnerability was paralyzing, and it terrified him because, for the first time in eons, he had all the words and none of them whatsoever. Corners of him shrieked at an assault that wasn’t there, tried to forge one out of nothing, to morph assurances into threats, into pointing fingers, into a condemnation wrapped so tightly between the lines he must have missed it because it must have been there. Lucifer thought he understood tenderness, that he knew what small acts of kindness are, that he knew how to make himself feel good and powerful and seen. But as far as he could remember, “good” always came from something less, from something he believed was so far beneath him he truly felt entitled to it. Even with Sam, and Sam was kind and oh so generous with his affections, millenia back when Sam’s love and endless attempts at understanding and forgiveness were still fresh and Lucifer thought they could heal him. It was still tainted, inferior, finite in all the ways humans would never perceive infinity. 

The validation Lucifer demanded, and was rightfully given in abundance, from his demons, from his knights and princes and old souls burnt and distorted and rebuilt only to worship and serve meant so little. A cheap imitation that would never measure up to a single glance of approval from Michael, or the fascination and thrill in Gabriel’s eyes back when Lucifer still had something new to teach him, or Rafael’s deference. Or Father’s love, and his eternity and absolution, and how his word was The Word, and if given it, nothing else dared to matter.

But Death’s gentle touch and the invitation he extended meant something, meant everything. Because it was not need, it was not awe, it was not appeasement. And Lucifer knew glory, knew it and ached for it, and the kindness was  _ glorious. _

And Lucifer said nothing. There was nothing to say. He just wept. 


	3. For God So Loved the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death will never be able to stand in for the love of Father, but he can try. And maybe, just maybe, Lucifer will take the kindness and pass it on.

It’s not that Lucifer let it happen, consciously or otherwise, the anguished sobs or the vulnerability or the unfolding. Because the stubborn prideful parts of him will loathe this, being so open and raw and needy. It’s that all living things, all beings of lights, gravitated towards Death, towards eventual atrophy. The universe claiming what is his, shrinking itself small and hot and chaotic, and leaping into the black hole that will end it all.

Lucifer felt it, the bittersweetness of farewells, the relief of finished businesses, the promise to rest in peace. It was tempting to give in to the finality of a being that offered salvation in the form of oblivion, that pardoned and acquitted and passed no judgments. 

And so Lucifer cried, cried like he hadn't in eons.

And Death looked down at him and something buried in the inky blackness of his being _ached_. He said nothing, because nothing at that moment needed to be said. He tugged Lucifer against him, the two vessels embracing just as wings of twilight and universes crumbled to dust wrapped around grace fraught with emotion, as cold as ice and as hot as fire all at once and he soothed him. Did his best to.

He knew it’s not the same, what he was giving to Lucifer. That it will never the the love from a father he had both rejected and yearned for so dearly. But it is close. It’s so close, because before Death was a horseman he was part of a different group of four. The emptiness and the dark and the light and him. Balanced. Perfect. His energy was both as close and as far away from God’s as it could be.

And he bundled it around Lucifer like a blanket, like an embrace. His touch didn’t kill, not when he didn’t want it to. It could ease pain. Untrouble burdened minds. It felt like a deep sleep and the frost of winter and the warmth of a star in a supernova all at once and it was all encompassing, because in the end he would take everything. In the end there would only be two. The emptiness the world had sprung from and the one that ground it back to dust and into nothing. It was great and terrible and beautiful and if Lucifer was too much for Sam in the beginning, Death would always be too much. The only reason he could do this was because Sam was so worn out from he and Lucifer’s lovemaking- because that’s what it was, after all. Kind touches hidden in pain, paths of true love hidden in questions and riddles and feigned spite and indifference. 

“You’ll be alright.”

There was a sense of suicidality to the embrace, a mercy killing waiting to happen. It was kind and serene and _beautiful,_ and Lucifer needed it, needed it more than he knew he could ever need anything that wasn’t the long-lost love turned resentment, festering in his heart that wasn’t a heart and spitting acid and tar and demanding vengeance. Oh, how he needed it. 

Death absorbed chaos and stabilized it, an extraction of all the cancers, all the malignancy Life has to offer, and the small petty greed, the incessant ache for _more more more_ when ‘more’ never sufficed and always left Lucifer wanting. Death flattened the line and it was sublime, and it felt like forgiveness. Or the closest to that Lucifer could earn without trying. 

And Lucifer found himself leaning in, eating it up as if he was starved, because he was starved, and words twirled and whirled within him, odes of gratitude and wails of a forgotten child trapped in a dark small room and suffocating on his own desolation. Because Dad is never coming back, and all his toys are broken, and he can’t remember the last time he was truly loved, or had anyone but imaginary friends and molded clay that loved him because it didn’t know better.

“I-- I’m so scared. I’m so scared of being alone again. I did it-- I did it all so I won’t be alone again.” 

“It’s hard. I know. It must hurt so much, doesn’t it?” Death murmured. “You don’t have to be scared. I’m here.” And he wanted so much to be there, because he felt Lucifer’s thoughts and emotions buffeting against him like a barrage of bullets. 

He held Lucifer close and soothed him, lapsing first into Enochian in his murmurings and then something ancient even compared to that. And he got an idea. A faint glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, could leave everyone satisfied.

But Lucifer wasn’t in the right state of mind to hear it. So Death sat down and guided Lucifer to sit down with him, like a parent holding their child in their lap between crossed legs.

Kindness and promises and serenity, temporary as they must be, seeped into Lucifer's grace and calmed his tribulation. And for the briefest of moments, he wasn’t burning on the stake of Heaven’s righteous fury, on holy fire and the life sentence of isolation that would never end because he’ll never die. And then there was a creeping wave of shame. Because Lucifer held on to his pride so much, so much, because it was the only thing he still had to claim as his own and spit in his father’s face because he still had it. His eternal battle and his shield. And that too was cracking. 

He still allowed himself to be regardless. He wouldn’t reject what he was given. The hints of far-fetched redemption, always beyond his reach otherwise. He wouldn't reject the small second chances he begged for for eons until he forgot how to beg anymore. Whatever this was, and if it was fleeting and a consolation rather than a solution, he'd take it. 

“I didn’t want the apocalypse. You know that, right? Not for humans, I wouldn’t claim to care if even Father won’t. But I don’t want to die, and I don’t want to kill Michael.”

He paused, and he huffed a very brief chuckle, bitter and tired and honest, “Uh-- he won’t talk to me here. I tried. I reached out on the very first day. Before I got to Sam, before anything else. I thought, hm, I thought the dark would devastate him, that I could offer the company he so denied me. I thought being together here would… mend the bridges. He wasn’t interested.” 

Death nodded slowly. He was glad to just hear Lucifer speak, to open up. He knew how deep the archangel could bury things, could hold them deep inside and never let go and never tell anyone.

“He is nearly as prideful as you, even if he won’t admit it. Just for different reasons. I wouldn’t expect him to accept help from you.” Death murmured, carding soft fingers through Lucifer’s hair and feathers and everything because he was touching him on more levels than one. 

“And I know you don’t want it. It’s not your story, after all. You didn’t make these decisions. You weren’t allowed to choose.” And there was barely hidden anger in his tone, fierce and powerful and more than anyone could comprehend because it had been festering forever, since before the beginning.

“I have been... considering an alternative to our deal. One that may benefit you more than our first. Would you like to hear it?”

And the frantic urgency with which Lucifer responded to that was almost pitiful, “Yes.”

“I would like to speak to your father. If you would let me take Sam from here…” Death sighed softly. “I would do my best to do the same for you, under a few conditions. Would that be agreeable?”

Something coiled tight and brutal beneath Lucifer’s vessel. A hopelessness born of millenia of resignation, of giving up, of prayers that went not only unanswered but unheard. He had long given up on the slightest chance of his father’s absolution. He could see it, feel it, his indifference, his complete and utter disregard. He knew God didn’t care, that he put him here and forgot about him and he was doing the same to Michael and nothing came out of this but false hope and disappointment and heartbreak because he didn’t need to be reminded again and again that he didn’t really matter. Not anymore. 

“And you expect Father to show… mercy? Because he won’t.” He said it almost softly. Because he appreciated it, appreciated the offer so much even when it smelt of futility and wishful thinking. 

“If He simply does not care,” Death said, giving a long pause as he thought, “I will make arrangements myself.” He decided. “I don’t care for you three being down here. Nothing should be. It’s abominable.” He said firmly. “Would you allow me to leave with Sam if I promise to return?” He looked down at Lucifer and sighed, shaking his head.

And Lucifer wanted to counter-offer. To reject the notion of paying in advance, to propose instead that Death returns with the get-out-of-prison card and then they all leave. Together. And hell, he’d spend every moment until then nursing Sam into health again. He’d be so good, he’d be so kind, he’d heal every wound and mend every damage and _fix him_. He knew exactly how to fix him.

But he didn’t know how to trust, didn’t know how to hope or pay it forward. Because as kind and soft and beautiful and absolving Death’s words rang in his very being, Lucifer knew he could be just as kind, and mean nothing of it. It terrified him that this could be manipulation, and that he was baring his throat and showing all his cards with no guarantees of anything in return. It terrified him even when his very core believed, clung to faith and hope and wanted to jump on the opportunity and embrace it. 

Still, Lucifer had a self-destructive streak, a tendency to make enemies of potential friends. Pride or arrogance or insecurity, whatever it was, he suffered for it time and time again. And perhaps this was an alliance that he shouldn’t jeopardize. 

“What are your conditions?”

“Forgiveness. Of humanity. Not of your father, I know that is near impossible. But you must learn to embrace them for all of their flaws. Quell the anger inside of you, because it’s not their fault the mark poisoned you against something you would have merely abided by otherwise.” Death hummed.

He certainly knew it was a stretch, and Lucifer May very well reject him and choose an eternity of isolation over admitting that he may have been wrong. But it was worth a shot.

“That’s all I ask. A... willingness to see the good in them. A refusal to continue on in a fight that, in all actuality, doesn’t matter. For you to allow yourself to grow and mature.” He murmured, gently rubbing Lucifer’s side.

“And it will be hard, because the only humans that may ever learn to trust you hate you more than anything, disregarding Sam.”

Lucifer’s gaze drifted to Sam and fixated. Still curled on himself so small, chest rising and ebbing as he stirred in his sleep every minute or two. Lucifer didn’t let him sleep often. It was centuries before he allowed it the first time, and centuries after before the second. Because if Lucifer was never afforded the luxury of shutting his consciousness off, of swimming in lands of dreams and nightmares and recollections, then Sam shouldn’t be, either. It struck him just then that he never managed to forgive him. That through all his pleas and offerings and submission, none of it was atonement enough. And maybe Lucifer, just like his father, didn’t know how to forgive an inherently lesser being.

How do you forgive an insect when it slights you, even when it didn’t mean to, even when it’s just spinning in circles stinging you in self-defence because it needs to survive. How do you not just crush it?

_Perhaps that’s how Dad sees you. The sheer audacity of your rebellion, of a “no” you shouldn’t have dared consider let alone utter. Small and pathetic and unworthy of His attention now that you’re not beautiful anymore._

Lucifer shifted uncomfortably, tense and unsettled and hurting. Hurting more than he could bear, “Do you suppose Sam would still love me when he’s out? When I’m not there to remind him to?”

“Perhaps he can learn to love you properly. Because it’s not love if it needs to be reinforced.” Death hummed, “Your father didn’t show his love by beating you senseless or fucking you into submission, unless I’m misremembering.” He allowed himself a small chuckle. “I’m sure he may. But you must allow him to make that decision for himself.”

Death slowly stood, folding himself back into his vessel like some sort of complex origami. “I think it would suit us both, though, if I stayed a little longer.” He said.

In reality, he didn’t want to leave Lucifer alone just yet. He didn’t want to be that cruel, he didn’t want to be the agent behind the archangel’s suffering. 

“Why don’t you show me something you’ve created here?”

Lucifer appreciated the pause, the space and time to consider Death’s offer, to consider the alternatives, to chew on the consequences of a “yes” so heavy he never quite thought it would weigh him down so much. He rose to his feet, smoothing hands on his shirt and nodding gratefully. And he hadn’t said it once yet even though his being vibrated with it. But he said it now. 

“Thank you. For this.”

And then he took a few tentative steps towards Sam, “Would you mind if I wake him up? I wanted to show him this one too. Thought I might never, after all.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Death warned lightly, before nodding. “Wake him, if you wish, but I would like for him to rest afterwards. I can tell he needs it.”

He looked down at Sam’s soul and he could practically feel the barely sated exhaustion buried deep inside because even when Sam was acting like the god of his own universe, second only to Lucifer, he was still human.

Lucifer nodded his agreement, though he didn’t quite see the point really, or why Sam’s fried circuits would need their 8 hours. He always healed them when they deteriorated too much, gave him better than the best sleep could offer, gave him bits and pieces of Heaven. It felt enough. Lucifer never questioned it. 

His first instinct was to snap his fingers and expect the boy up and ready and _grateful_ in a flash. Because Sam always slept light, always so attentive to certain conditioned sounds, and would jump out of the deepest of REM sleep before Lucifer’s fingers collided a second time.

He didn't, though. He told himself he was trying to be kinder. He told himself to try. And lowered himself to his knees next to him and rested a cold hand on the boy’s shoulder and rubbed circles there, “Sammy?”

Sam tensed, brow creasing as he slowly blinked his eyes open. “Lucifer?” He asked, and he almost thought it was a dream because Lucifer would never wake him up like that, had never done anything like that and if he had it was a trap, a trick, or a test that Sam would ultimately fail.

He forced himself to become more alert, posture undeniably terrified for a second. “What’s wrong? Did I miss- I’m sorry.” He said quickly, pushing himself up to sit.

Lucifer stroked Sam’s cheek lightly, thumb rubbing against his lower lip, “Nothing wrong. Come. I’d like to show you and Death a side project I was working on.”

Sam leaned into the kind touch, brow furrowed lightly as he nodded obediently and pushed himself to his feet.

Death hummed, leaning on his cane and waiting for the other two to lead the way. The cage really was like a maze, even in its nothingness, and he didn’t intend to venture off on his own.

But Lucifer knew the cage, knew it with intimacy that ached. He knew shortcuts to every corner, every alleyway he created and refined and decorated along the years. He knew the straightest line to the door, and the territories where Michael’s grace shined so fierce and bright and unwelcoming. He sensed the other human consciousness in the far distance, still mostly in a trance, peaceful. And the areas where it was darker than dark, and Lucifer would steer himself away because it called for him, pulled on him, quicksand of nothing threatening to swallow him whole and never let go. He knew where not to go. 

He raised his hand and pulled on invisible strings in the air, two fingers twirling in a half circle. The environment around them revolved, angled itself at Lucifer’s bidding, shifting to face a direction that remained beforehand outside any line of sight. And before them extended a long hall. Walls that were more fluid than solid, see-through glass reflecting a spectrum of chroma behind it, swirling in kaleidoscopic shapes restlessly, fascinating and mind-bending and overwhelming in all their colors, in all their music. And the halls were nothing new to Sam. They were wormholes in spacetime, detours around the parts Sam had built, that still held structure and order to them, and appeared to an objective eye as normal. Towns and fields and towers and oceans, distributed on stretches of land in organized stacks. Like a lego city. Lucifer’s creations, on the other hand, were tucked away behind his halls, and Sam couldn’t get there on his own. 

Lucifer took Sam’s hand in his own, and he led the way. And Sam gripped on him like a lifeline, not the slightest bit fazed by the phantasmagoria of shifting colors and shapes and beauty in the hall. He kept close to Lucifer, not wanting to stray far from his side when he was being so unbelievably kind.

He was like a dog begging for scraps, gnawing on whatever barebones affection and love was tossed his way with fervent desperation because he didn’t get enough, he didn’t get what he needed. He would contest that fact to high heaven but nothing would change the fact that he was human and needed normal human interactions.

Death paused, and tilted his head to the side and _smiled_ before he walked forward, cane clicking on the floor of the hall and echoing about. It was so familiar and different at the same time. At some points similar to the barren halls of heaven and at others what they were before, shining places of pure light and joy and wonder, and at other times still so uniquely Lucifer it almost hurt.

There was a door at the end of the hall. Lucifer liked doors, liked opening them and locking them and the invitations and confinements that came with them. There were doors to most of his creations. A small quirk Sam may have made a joke about once back when he still made jokes. Not anymore. Lucifer couldn't remember the last time Sam made him laugh. And he used to, so often. And the archangel wasn't exactly sure when Sam stopped, or if it was his fault. But if it was, then it was a loss he mourned.

He tightened his grip around Sam’s hand, reciprocal and reassuring, and as they stood before the unopened door, he hummed, “This was supposed to be a surprise for you. It’s unfinished as of yet. But we might as well while we still can.” 

Sam blinked and gave a small smile. “For me?” He asked, as if to confirm. The excitement in his eyes was pure and unadulterated, not forced. He looked so genuinely curious and it was hard for Lucifer to remember the last time he looked like that. “Thank you,” He breathed, and it wasn’t out of reflex. It wasn’t a desperate plea to stop the pain or to keep Lucifer happy because it was the right thing to say.

And then Sam leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Lucifer. He didn’t understand the kindness he was receiving but it was so perfect and everything he needed he could almost cry. He was crying. And they were happy tears, hot and wet and streaming down his face and dampening Lucifer’s shirt because he was pressed so close, so tight against him. “Thank you.”

When Sam was on his feet, when he wasn’t kneeling or recoiling or curled on himself on the floor, he stood significantly taller and bigger than Lucifer’s vessel. And yet there was something about his posture that always attempted to shrink itself into small and invisible, into a thing that can be wrapped up and held and coddled and protected. It was so obvious Lucifer often wondered if the boy ultimately prefered being on his knees. Because he was always bare-foot and ready, hunched and shoving himself closer and lower and deeper, like the very Earth has claimed his soul and was constantly pulling on his leash. 

And Lucifer planted a chaste kiss on his forehead and ruffled his hair. He didn't say anything. He pushed the door open and stepped in. 

Inside was a very standard library, something you’d find in every town. So human and so simple it was almost nothing special. There was a table in the corner, and a drawing board, and lines and lines of stacks of books and empty papers. A round vacant space in the middle. 

Lucifer tilted his head and smiled almost wistfully, “You know how I can never finish through a story if I share the memory with you because it often overwhelms you? I thought I might write them down for you. So you can see them at your own pace.”

There wasn't a single book on the shelves that would be found in a standard library though. Because Lucifer made them all anew. Because Sam used to be so curious, used to stare and ask and probe and beg for stories from ancient forgotten times even Lucifer struggled to remember. And Lucifer showed him what he could show him without melting his brain. But then Sam would crumble, and nod mindlessly, and clutch on something to ground him because Lucifer’s memories came with vision and input and feelings that he couldn’t bear or perceive. And Lucifer had so much to share and reminisce on, debates to be had and arguments to be won, and so little of it to show without blowing the boy’s mind. 

It was also documentation, and a gift. Sam created so well and Lucifer thought he would reward it at some point, give him more to play with, more to build on. 

Sam’s eyes widened and the small smile on his face split into a wide grin. Because after all this time, after being beaten down and rearranged and after everything Lucifer had done with him, he still had a thirst for knowledge. He stepped forward, almost hesitantly, before his timid walking became a rush to the nearest shelf from which he promptly pulled a larger, leather bound book and sat down, running two fingers along its spine. It felt real and heavy in his hands and when he opened it, somehow it had that old book smell that filled every library in his time on Earth, and that brought memories of research and hunting and he was crying again, unable to see the words on the pages through the haze of tears in his eyes because it was so much and so kind and _he wasn’t worthy_ _and he never would be and he didn’t understand why Lucifer would give him something like this_.

Death tilted his head to the side and stepped forward to stand beside Lucifer. Conversely when compared to Sam, though his vessel was a few inches shorter than Lucifer’s, his posture and way of holding himself commanded respect, commanded the other being and even the human on the ground to look up at him rather than down. “It may be too much even in this form.” He remarked quietly, watching as Sam wiped at his eyes.

Lucifer pursed his lips casually, “He’s sturdier than you think. Sturdier than I expect, sometimes. I still see it when he’s designing a constellation or reconstructing a biological organism. And if I don’t push him, how would he improve otherwise?”

And for a second Lucifer looked like a strict but proud parent, demanding, so demanding and ambitious with his expectations, but loving and nurturing all the same. 

“The geometrical marvels he has built. You should have seen them. It was beautiful.” 

“And you destroyed them all the same.” Death said, shaking his head as he watched Sam read. “Why, might I ask?"

There was a tinge of defensiveness in Lucifer’s tone, but what he did made all the sense to him and he didn’t really regret it. He still kept the sentimental ones. He kept Venus.

“I figured if he’s leaving, I’d rather not be plagued with so much of him right in my face for eons to come. And, well, if he’s not… it’s motivation to do better.”

"Hmm. What is he looking into right now?”

Lucifer glanced at the book in Sam’s hands from feet away, and hummed, “Monsters. Pre-Leviathan. Barely a hint of self-awareness. Dad sent Rafael to keep an eye and he did such a shit job we ended up smiting them all. It was interesting because they had potential, lived in semi-communities and were just about to start using tools. But Dad wasn’t very patient at the time.”

He squinted a little, contemplative, “Oh, and Auntie loved them. May have been why they were discarded, coming to think of it.”

“I’m fairly certain that was the exact reason.” Death commented simply. “They were alright, though I did like the leviathans better. Pity they had to be locked away, really.” He decided, carefully sitting down and gesturing for Lucifer to join him. 

“I think with some tweaking they would have been able to coexist with humans, for the most part. But once again- she liked them, so out they went.”

Lucifer sat down, eyes at a still transfixed Sam, “The Leviathans doomed themselves the first time they killed an angel and it worked. Dad wouldn’t have his army so compromised. Wouldn’t have an equal force running rampant on Earth, uncontrolled and undisciplined, not when they had Amara’s favor. Shame, though, I agree. I didn’t particularly hate them.”

“Mm. It’s not exactly free will and natural selection when you can simply take a piece out of play, is it?” Death mused, leaning back. “But I digress. Ah-“ Ha paused, tilting his head to the side as Sam carefully marked the book with a scrap of paper he’d found and returned to the shelf to find another, this time actually checking for titles on the side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! 
> 
> It's been pretty awesome sharing this story with you so far! This fic is complete and we're doing some minor editing as we go. So we're hoping to update regularly. Do let us know if the chapters are too long (or too short?). Generally, any feedback, questions, thoughts, criticism are welcome and super appreciated. Thank you so much for reading!


	4. We Sang a Dirge, and You Did Not Mourn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the purest of intentions, of gifts, can be soured and corrupted. As tensions rise sometimes the only option is to retreat and pursue other options- and those can be just as fruitless.

“Come look at this one, Sammy."

When Sam looked back at Lucifer, and the book he'd just summoned with a flick of a finger and was now balanced on his thigh as he rested one leg over the other, he saw it, too. Blue eyes darkening with something cold and familiar. This urge Sam recognized so well and often wondered if Lucifer was even aware of it as it manifested, as it took hold.

"Demon biology. Demon blood. Wait-"

Lucifer skimmed through the words, turned a few pages, stopped at a paragraph in Enochian and pressed his thumb there, shifting the book to hand it to Sam as he walked towards him. 

“Read. Out loud.”

Sam knew the look, the tone, the urge. Knew what to expect. He frowned down at the paragraph, clearing his throat. Spoken Enochian was all fine and well but he did have some difficulty when it came to the symbols, not that the content made it any easier to focus. Slowly, he began to read, brow creasing as he did. He stuttered once or twice, eventually resorting to running his finger under the characters as he spoke.

It was a passage explaining how demonic possession changes the chemical composition of the blood in the human body said demon resides in, with reference to how this blood can then be extracted and used to create another demon with no pressing need to twist their soul. That it’s an asexual reproduction and a parasite in its own right. Its addictive qualities, the dormant powers it might trigger.

Lucifer was always experimental, since Lilith and long before. And he may have had no particular need to learn the ins and outs of human physiology, but he did anyway. Centuries of carving and molding and curiosity, right there in a book for Sam to consume, a half-forgotten phase in his past life explained in clinical detail. 

“Read the part down there about addiction. And louder, Sam, I can barely hear you.”

The symbols swayed left and right and danced off of the page. Sam was so close, so close to forgetting it ever happened, like the rest of his life before the cage, that it didn't even matter. But the cravings had never really left him, and his face burnt with shame old and new, his mouth going dry. Because he could almost, almost, taste the blood on the tip of his tongue, could practically feel the thrumming of power in his veins as he spoke, describing those very things. He was going to be sick, head pounding and stomach twisting itself up in knots, both from the physical revulsion and the intense guilt, the intense need, and his voice only grew softer as he cringed in on himself.

“Lucifer…” Death said warningly, though he remained silent for the most part.

Thing is, that may have been an unaddressed addiction in and of itself. Because Lucifer didn’t know how to exist in middle grounds. There was always the need to overwhelm, to feed on an extreme emotion or the other, be it positive or negative, but nothing in between. Mild and peaceful and quiet barely did anything for him. If it wasn’t devastating, then it was paradise. If it wasn’t elation, then it was agony. And he always wanted to watch Sam squirm, even when he didn’t fully register that this was exactly what he was doing. 

He turned to Death, half confused, half slightly irritated, “He’s just reading for me. I didn’t touch him.”

“Can you not see he is uncomfortable?” Death asked pointedly. “Imagine I had you recite aloud in graphic detail your fall from grace. Every second of agony, every pulse of pain from the wound Michael’s lance gave you. Each feather burning and shriveling and turning to dust. Would you be a …‘happy camper’?” He raised his brows. “Or would you be uncomfortable to the point of near panic in the room that was meant to be a gift? You may stop reading, Samuel.”

And Death didn’t care if he was overstepping bounds because Sam was still whispering his way through the paragraph and sobbing with this muted paralyzed resignation

Lucifer rose from his chair almost a little too fast, a little too aggressively. He didn’t want to _hear_ the briefest of reiterations of the fall, the mere mention poking at wounds still too fresh and open as much as they were ancient. He waved his hand dismissively, dismissing the memory and what triggered it, a quality of indignation so clear in his tone he couldn't disguise it, “Fine. Fine… Got it.”

And there was fury seething beneath his vessel, burning bright and restless to unleash itself. Because on all accounts, he didn’t think he deserved this. Because he wasn't used to restraining himself so tight and tip toeing and calculating the consequence of every move. And he was staring at Sam like he wanted to eviscerate him on the spot.

Knuckles showing through white as he gripped onto the book and pressed back in his chair, Sam whimpered an apology. Of course he did. Even if it wasn’t for something he said, because he must have been the cause behind it, "I'm so sorry-"

And Death stood and placed a firm hand on Lucifer's shoulder, “Don’t take out your anger on him. In fact- why don’t we go outside and leave him to his own devices? You’re not in a right state of mind at the moment.” He said, and his tone brokered no argument as he tightened his grip and practically dragged Lucifer out of the room.

Lucifer didn't exactly fight it, followed Death outside silently, eyes drifting away from Sam with no further interaction or comment. He pulled the door closed behind him, lips pressed into a thin line and a shade of red flickering on and off in his eyes. 

“Don’t. I get it. I wasn’t going to hurt him.”

He wasn’t going to. He wanted to, he wanted to so much. But he had already promised himself to not hurt Sam in the library because he didn’t want him scared there. The bit with the book didn’t count, really. It was fun and games, it was nothing serious, it wouldn’t even compare to the fall. _How dare you?_

But he didn’t say that. 

“You might think that was an unfair comparison.” Death started, letting out a soft sigh through his nose. “Allow me to put it in perspective- and if I, something far older than both of you, who has gone through so much more- can see it and you cannot, you are either blind or denying yourself.” He looked down at Lucifer. 

“Sam’s... addiction parallels your fall exactly. On purpose. Because your father is a sadist who enjoys symmetry and out of all the many preordained things in Samuel’s life, that was the worst. Do you not understand? The pain he went through. The guilt, the shame, of not being able to control himself, seeing himself become corrupted and unable to fully control himself. Shunned and cast out by a brother who doesn’t understand. Forced through the hell that was withdrawal. Visions, hallucinations, his own mind playing tricks on him. Let me know if you’re seeing any similarities yet. Anything that might warrant my reaction. No?” He sounded almost angry, because he was. No matter whether Lucifer intended to hurt Sam or not, the desire was still there. Flashing in his eyes and burning in his grace and the absolute rage that had rolled off of the archangel in that instant was baffling. “So why don’t we indulge ourselves in a familiar game. Let’s talk about our feelings, Lucifer.”

And Lucifer almost smiled at the reference, something tight and not particularly entertained. He did see the similarities, and it might have been something he never considered before. He didn't admit to that, and instead he schooled his expression into something blank and cold and he spoke slowly, but as he did his tone escalated, betraying every bit of emotion he didn't know what to do with, that clawed on his insides demanding an outlet.

“I’ll be honest with you, Death. I respect and appreciate your patience and your kindness more than I know how to express. But, my feelings. Hmm. I feel frustrated. I feel claustrophobic. I feel undermined. I feel offended. I feel something that is mine is being ripped away from me and I’m meant to just... watch it happen.” 

“Were you under the impression that I am fair? I offer you my kindness. And I simply wish to offer you guidance as well.” Death said slowly, voice even and measured. “Sam may have been made for you. But he is in no way yours. He is either his own person or he’s not, and yet you’ve been yo-yo-ing between the two incessantly. I am not ripping Sam away from you by insisting you not put him through undue trauma he _didn’t ask for_. I am taking him, I fully intend to go through that, yet I have made you an offer that would allow you to see him again. Is that not enough? Are you that greedy and prideful that you must have everything your way or not at all? Because I will hold true to my previous threat if necessary.”

It’s ironic because Lucifer recognized those patterns, the conditional kindness, firm boundaries that he shouldn’t overstep or else. He recognized them so well and he didn’t like being subject to them one bit. He didn't know how to play by the rules of a game he didn’t himself devise. Never knew how. Never knew how to force himself to walk on straight lines and save himself the consequences. And he really intended to try earlier, but he wasn't sure he could just press a button and make himself into something he wasn't.

“Right now, Sammy is behind this door, breaking his nails bloody, clawing at the wood, because you had me leave him alone so abruptly. And he doesn’t do well on his own. Let me calm him down. And then do whatever you want. I’m tired. I’m so tired. I’m trying.”

“Maybe he wouldn’t be if you had ever treated him like a human.” Death sniped, before waving his hand as if to say ‘be my guest’. 

“Don’t make yourself into the victim here, Lucifer. I will attempt to speak with your father. I will return in short order.”

And with that... well, with that he was gone. Completely. No fuss, no worry, no long, drawn out process. He could come and go from the cage as he pleased and it was so terribly gut-wrenching to see someone else just go as if there wasn’t any confinement at all.

And Lucifer stared at the empty space where Death just was, hand frozen on the doorknob, dumbfounded. 

\-----

Death appeared not in heaven, but in a small, two storied home. He sighed heavily and gently brushed off his overcoat as if to rid himself of the last vestiges of the cage, before tapping his cane once on the floor so as to call attention to himself.

He didn’t particularly approve of this ‘Chuck’ masquerade and to him, it only showed that God was never and had never been perfect, because here He was drinking His vessel silly while He wrote new (and arguably, worse; it was no wonder the old ones held up- it was because He hadn’t written them directly) gospels in between bouts of watching porn.

And Chuck was still typing away on his computer, one hand on the keyboard and the other clutching on a glass of scotch. He didn't turn or move, though his speed slowed down gradually into an eventual halt as he muttered slowly, tone somewhat amicable, "To what do I owe the pleasure, then?"

“I believe we need to have a long overdue chat about your son.” Death said, slowly stalking over and carefully sitting at the table across from Chuck. He rested one hand on the faded wood, while the other held his cane. His ring glinted in the low light of the room.

He was confident in his ability to come there unannounced because, in all honesty, what was God going to do? Smite him? The thought was almost laughable.

“Which one?”

Chuck murmured, a little distracted. Eyes still skipping over the line he paused at. He tapped a finger-pad against the side of the keyboard, as if chasing a thought as it promptly escaped him. Before he sighed, giving up; his gaze finally darting up to Death. 

Death blinked. “Lucifer?” He offered slowly, as if it should have been obvious to Chuck. He tilted his head to the side just slightly, eyes raking over the other entity. It was almost... well, he didn’t want to use the word sad. It didn’t make him teary-eyed or upset. 

More... pathetic. Yes, that was the word. Because it was impossible to put this God in the same level as the God that created Eden and the angels, the God that rained down only terror on those He deemed unworthy.

Everything about Chuck screamed fallen king, screamed infinite disappointment. He oozed boredom and midlife crises, casual reckless power trickling off of him because he couldn’t care less. There was an air of heaviness about him, one he easily played off as burdened and overwhelmed cluelessness when he was more Prophet than God. But when he was God, when he had nothing to disguise, and even though the vessel he wore suggested nothing of divinity and attempted to display none, the most unobservant observer would still witness the beginning in His eyes. An eternally unimpressed gaze, and a hunger for entertainment, for conflict and stimulation, that had long resigned itself to never be sated. He chased the elusive high of firsts, of the unpredictable and the original, of all the stories that wrote themselves, unfolded themselves before Him without His meddling. And yet there was always the impatience, and the dissatisfaction, and the pathological need to direct the play because it dragged and dragged and He _needed_ something to happen already. 

“Ah, what did he do now?”

He leaned back in his chair, robe slightly sliding back with the motion to reveal a simple t-shirt and boxers. He fumbled with the nearly empty glass, swirling the liquid inside. Because to be completely honest, he didn’t need this today. Or tomorrow. Or at any point really. Death was supposed to pull Sam out of the cage and that was that. He was more focused on a Castiel storyline at this point and none of Lucifer’s shenanigans fit in there.

“It’s more what he didn’t do, really. I don’t think the cage is a fair punishment for either him or his brother. I don’t think he’s deserving of it.” Death hummed. “And before you say that life isn’t fair, remember who I am and that I know about your... abandoned plot lines, other stories. I’m simply asking you to let it be fair. Just this once. Perhaps it will pan out in a way you have not anticipated yet.” 

Chuck scrunched his face, “Lucifer getting out early on parole? Wait, I think I have something on that somewhere-”

Hand over the mouse and Chuck browsed his screen for an old abandoned file he hadn’t checked in a couple of years, "Ahh, may have deleted it. Can’t remember but it most definitely did not pan out well.”

He pulled back, stood up and walked to the other side of the room to grab a bottle and refill his glass, “Why the sudden interest in ‘fair’?”

“Perhaps I’ve grown sentimental in my old age. I’m rather surprised you haven’t.” Death hummed. “I spoke to him. I think it would suit both him and this little planet better if he were allowed a chance to properly repent.” He paused, gaze hardening slightly. “Unless of course the cage is arbitrary and you’d rather see your most loved son suffer for an evil that isn’t his own.” He said flatly.

For all the classics, and the epics, and the thousand million alterations and variations and could-have-beens, Chuck was beyond pretending that what he felt for his favorite characters was love. Because it wasn’t. It was investment at best and apathy at worst. Those he was meant to love dearly suffered for it because they always needed to provide. Those he didn’t care for, well, he just let them be. And that was God at his most unloving: uninterested and hands-off and expecting nothing. Because he expected a lot from Lucifer, and Lucifer had provided more than the entire populations of now gone and forgotten planets ever could. Lucifer was perfect in all the ways he wasn’t. In his obsessions and his heartbreaks and his rebellions, and the self-destructive streak that had him always spinning in circles on an endless quest for what he was never meant to have. Lucifer was set up for failure because his failure was beautiful. And in that sense, God loved him best. 

And Chuck leaned back against the counter, emptied the glass in one gulp, bottle still in the other hand. He waved dismissively, “Lucifer will get out eventually, have his chance to repent and all. All in good time. He’s not ready. Not yet.”

What he meant to say is “not useful.” Because Lucifer was the dragon he kept in the basement and would only take out for a grand finale. But not right now. He was writing filler chapters and the next big thing needed no archangels on the board or that plotline would end a lot faster than he’d like. 

“He has emotions, you know. And I’m sure he was perfectly ready to do just that... millennia ago. In _our_ time. Have you checked in on him? Or is his brokenness something your story necessitates? Because if so I have to say you’re a sorry excuse for a creator.” Death said firmly. “Because if I try to take Sam out with brute force which is what you undoubtedly want, anything I do to fix him may very well fail. It’s nearly a certainty. If not for Lucifer, for the Winchesters? Have they not been through enough?”

Chuck shook his head with the slightest hint of frustration, like this should have been obvious and he didn't need to state it, “Sam is gonna be fine. Character building, works for him so well; you have no idea. I wouldn’t let my son break him, not entirely, you must know that.”

And no, he hadn’t checked on Sam, or Lucifer, or Michael or Gabriel in a while. Perhaps he should have really, but things were happening upstairs and it’s Rafael’s moment to shine. Briefly as it shall be. 

He pursed his lips, as if it was literally written in the stars and he couldn't change fate if he tried, “Listen, man, I appreciate the, hmm, constructive criticism, but it’s just not meant to be.”

“Ah. Well. I suppose I was just here for the insight.” Death said after a short while. Why should he have to just sit there and allow the universe to be dictated like that? He might as well do it himself. And what consequences would he face? “Fare thee well, ‘Chuck.’” He hummed, before disappearing as swiftly as he’d come, face set and determined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, this story is gonna get blasphemous fast so, fair warning. Also feedback makes our day! Any and all discussions on the nature of good and evil and characters' morality systems (and the choices they make accordingly) are more than welcome. Thank you so much for reading!


	5. And to Dust You Shall Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time in the cage passes on a glacial scale. In the years that follow Death’s departure, Sam and Lucifer are practically walking on eggshells. And when it comes time to go, things become harder than expected.

Lucifer may have spent the first year after Death’s visit and his abrupt departure practically on his toes, looking over his shoulders, expecting the world to crumble around him at any moment, waiting for Sam to dissipate before his very eyes. The anxiety and the dread made him infinitely more emotional, which made him kinder, mostly, and crueler, sometimes. Not that he didn’t know how time behaved in the cage, slow and heavy and endless. He knew that wasn’t it, that a brief interaction topside would have him down here biding his seconds, perhaps his centuries, for the other shoe to drop. 

The years that followed, Lucifer liked to think he was genuinely trying. On all accounts, he did. Because he may have promised nothing but an unwritten deal still hung in the air, demanding to be abided by. And Lucifer entertained hope even when he didn’t want to, that perhaps there was something to earn if he proved himself capable of change, or worthy of a second chance. But none of it was easy or simple or straightforward. Lucifer had no manual to follow, no guidelines, no inherent sense of ultimately right and ultimately wrong to rely on. He tried to be kind, generous, forgiving, which at times was none of the above even when he thought it was. He still lost his temper a lot; he still succumbed to boredom, and rage, and bouts of sadism and narcissism that had him wielding systematic destruction like a weapon with no qualms or regrets. Regardless, he never allowed himself to forget what was coming. And to the best of his abilities, selfishly for the light at the end of that tunnel, or otherwise out of an honest desire for some form of redemption, he tried to _fix_ Sam. 

Or maybe, maybe, it was hysterical bonding. Or at least that's what Sam thought it to be. When it was more kindness than cruelty and more reward than punishment and suffering inflicted with such mournful tenderness as if Lucifer could feel it with him, as if Sam should savor it with him. When he would hold on too tight and stare away into a brand new star system and his grace would _cling_ to Sam's soul and grieve.

It was this quality of farewells that made it finally sink in. And Sam believed it then. That all those years ago, Death did come, and he was going to return, one day, for him. And perhaps for Lucifer too.

There was this shared terror that they both tiptoed around and didn't address. It still seeped into every interaction and every promise and every moment of intimacy suspended in heaviness because it knew it won't last. And Sam's fear wasn't just love and damage and conditioning and all the parts of him that called the Devil home and meant it. It was also the Outside and the crushing weight of choices that would no longer be his and his alone to forfeit.

Sam wanted the sickness to stay caged, Lucifer's and his all the same. An eternity of here where every surrender still felt like a sacrifice for a half-forgotten greater good, somewhere in deserted alleyways of his brain where he still saved the world.

They bode their time, anyway.

And by the time Death did come back, Sam was sitting on the shore of a calm sea, feet barely beyond the line where water met sand. He had a notebook in hand, and he was doodling a new species of fish he planned to design because the farthest corners in the west remained too empty and too bare when, if, he ever swam that far.

“I don’t like it. Too big, too wide.” Lucifer complained as he paced back and forth behind him. Too tense, and matter of fish usually didn't warrant tension.

Sam stared at the unfinished drawing, tapped the end of his pencil against paper, “It won’t bite. Won’t give it teeth, or hunger.”

“Sammy. Make something biologically accurate or don’t at all. This is an abomination.”

Sam huffed, “Will you please just let me finish? It’s not done yet.” 

“Okay. But if it can’t survive on its own and/or will fuck up the marine ecosystem, it’s not happening.”

“Got it. Help me with reproduction though because I’m thinking som--” 

“To me it looks like a rather oversized trout. Perhaps something along the lines of spawning. Hello, Sam. Apologies for my long absence.” Death hummed softly, suddenly speaking from behind the pair. “It was no easier this time around to find the part of the cage you were in.” 

“I come bearing good news.” He said, looking up at Lucifer and arching a brow. “Your sentence has been commuted.” And he didn’t have the authority to say that while at the same time he did, because rules outside for life and death and being were a despicable construct and he tended not to abide by them. Once again, he despised God’s morality system and how Hell worked, even for humans.

There was rarely anything ever cut in black and white. Why should a human have to suffer the rack after martyring themselves and sacrificing their own soul to save their family? Why should a wealthy man that never technically did anything wrong but was miserly and unkind to his fellow man on a surface level taste the joys of Heaven? Sometimes he did so wish that he and the reapers could be the ones to judge a soul for all of its worth without needing to heed the markers of Heaven or Hell.

But this was the one thing he felt confident in changing, in taking for himself and setting it ‘right.’ As ‘right’ as it could be.

Lucifer sensed Death at the door just as he did the first time. Except this time around, he had an idea of what to expect. It still had his grace stirring with dread and hope and anticipation and all the emotions that were too human to admit even to himself. But there was no rage. Not when he had a decade and a half to prepare himself for this day. 

But Sam didn’t. Because when Sam sat down to design a new element for their little universe, he liked to pretend it was forever. He liked to pretend he'll never leave. And so he dropped his notebook and watched the waves claim it, jumped to his feet and to Lucifer’s side, clutched on him and stared ahead wildly. 

Lucifer patted on the hand gripping on him for dear life and braced himself. There was so much promise to the words he just heard he almost dismissed them on instinct, on principle. Because Lucifer didn’t get good news. Not ever.

“You spoke to Father? He sanctioned this?”

And there was yearningin in the question that was almost desperate and incredulous and heartbreaking. 

“I did. He didn’t sanction it, but at this point I don’t particularly care what He says anymore.” Death said after a short pause. “Would you be willing to leave now? Both of you?”

He asked, some degree of haste in his voice because while retribution wouldn’t fall on him, he worried if he lingered too long with this plan in mind it would fall on one of the two before him.

Lucifer’s face contorted with confusion, with disappointment, with the same sickly sinking feeling that twisted his grace tight and strained every time his father rejected him. But Sam was clinging to his arm and pulling on him, chest heaving and breathing loud and unstable and he was panting words that sounded so fucking sweet it’s almost a dream. 

"Both of us?"

And Lucifer shook his head, blinking, and he spoke to Death because he had no answers for Sam right now, “He won’t allow it. He won’t let it happen. He’ll bury me in a burning barren universe too far and too forgotten even you won’t reach me.” 

“Would it be worse than the prospect of being alone here for eternity?” Death asked. “Is there shame in trying?” He looked up at Lucifer. “I don’t want to leave you here. I won’t see you- either of you- suffer further than you must.” And after a few seconds he sighed and held out his hand. “Please.” And he never pleaded, because he and what he stood for was always absolute, with no argument brokered, no room for error. “Let me do this.”

“And Michael?”

And the layers of this question tugged on both of them perhaps in equal measures. On Lucifer because this was the brother he, after so long and so much and so, so little, still loved. Who still wanted to kill him. Who still wanted to follow through with an aborted plan and wouldn’t budge no matter what. And on Sam because the possibility, the mere thought of himself, of the fucking Devil, of God’s first son and warrior and enactor of Heaven’s Will outside, brought along an onslaught of memories and questions and a pending apocalypse and the “yes” of all yeses, the one he thought he’ll never worry about again.

"Let's stay. Please- let's stay. I don't wanna go anywhere. Lucifer..."

Lucifer shushed him with a single glance.

“I will come to him later. Far after I have dealt with both you and Sam. But as I have said, Lucifer. No one belongs here.” Death shook his head. “And I don’t doubt it will be difficult to dissuade him from finding you and ending you when I do. But he will listen to me like he listened to your father. You know that.”

And Lucifer was all tense shoulders and cold fire and grace vibrating loud and glorious, aching. Because he was grateful and he was elated and he was terrified. And he finally turned to Sam, voice soft and usure and teetering on the edge of panic, “Sam?"

Sam swallowed and stared between the two, "I don't-"

_I don't want to leave. I want us to stay. I'm terrified, I'm terrified for the world, I'm terrified of you. I want us here, together. I love you. I won't leave without you. We should never leave, please, we should never leave. Home. Good. Safe for us. Safe from us. Just us. Please._

"Sam?"

And Lucifer kissed him, palms splayed and cupping his face and drawing him in. Fingers curled in his hair and tightened and claimed and he bit him and sucked on his lips and he smiled against his softness and his terror and he didn't need to ask again.

"Mhm," Sam's voice broke under the weight of his non-answer.

Lucifer pulled back abruptly, hand still in Sam’s hair, gentler now. He shifted his gaze to Death, “Thank you. I remember our deal, I remember your conditions. I’ll stay in line.”

“Good. I’m going to take you to my... place.” He didn’t exactly have a word for the little pocket dimension he and the reapers shared. “And Sam I will attempt to heal and return to his brother. I will sort out the minutiae of your relationship when I get to it.” He held out a hand for Lucifer to take.

And Sam was hyperventilating at the mere mention of his brother. And he didn’t let go of Lucifer’s arm, whimpering because he had so many words but couldn't put together a single sentence.

So human. So human and so damaged and a third to two entities older than his fucking Sun.

Lucifer stroked his cheek and spoke slowly, every word enunciated and firm and kind, “Sammy. I’m going to withdraw my grace so we can go now. It will hurt. And you’ll be fine. Do you understand?”

And distress morphed itself into something selfish again, something that could never bear the thought of separation as his very soul shrieked.

"No. Don’t leave me, please don’t- Lucifer-"

“Sammy, you’re brave and gorgeous and mine and I love you. You’ll be fine. I promise. This isn’t goodbye.”

Lucifer took Death’s hand. And for how much it hurt him too, because it was coiled and settled and nestled so deep and so twisted and it felt like the only home that ever took him in so fully and let him stay, he pulled out of Sam’s soul. 

Sam let out an anguished wail. The sound was all encompassing, almost inhuman, because he was being ripped away from the only thing he’d really known for tens of thousands of years. “I’m sorry- I’m sorryimsorry please- please!” He gasped out, clinging fruitlessly to Lucifer and sobbing because it _hurt so much_ both physically and emotionally and, fuck, even spiritually, because Lucifer was nothing less than his god and his protector and his lover and he didn’t even want to think about what life apart from him would feel like.

And against all odds, and even if Sam couldn't voice a choice, couldn't even make it, his soul did. And his soul didn't want to leave. Didn't want to leave _him_ , or the cage, or the reality that was built here and became truer than true. For every promise he made and intended to keep, for himself and for Lucifer and for who and what they are, and for a world that deserves better than the nightmares they carry in with them. And for the hundred thousand times the very essence of nothing threatened to annihilate everything that was human and bright and light in him and he still turned the dark into something of his own, decorated it with pieces of himself and found a way to belong.

Sam's soul fought when he couldn't, pure instinct, stared Death straight in the eyes and screamed another no. 

Death gently ran his thumb over the back of Lucifer’s hand, sighing softly at the display before him. Human strife was often impressive in its futility.

And in all the ways Lucifer had torn through the boy and always, always revelled in it, this one broke his heart into a million pieces. He gripped tight on Death’s hand and as his grace shuddered within him, aching for Sam’s soul just as much, he fought right back to enforce the separation. And for a moment it seemed as though Sam could keep them both here with sheer will alone, could hold on to the cage for the two of them and never let go. Lucifer allowed himself to appreciate the utter irony of it, of a learnt behavior he nurtured and now had to undo, and a soul he relied on to withstand every force and choose him and stay, now choosing him and withstanding him, too. 

“Make him forget. Make him forget everything. Everything. Please.”

Death blinked, turning his head to look down at Lucifer. “Are you sure?” He asked, looking down at the shuddering heap that was Sam’s soul, a rapid animal run down by a hundred trucks and still on the side of the road, shredded and broken and clawing for a choice. He didn’t doubt it would be for the best, after all.

And Lucifer looked overwhelmed, hurting and burning and parts of him being ripped apart as they spoke because the entanglement was so tight and so strong and as much a core piece of him as it had become of Sam’s. And he shook his head, heaviness dripping with every word he uttered like the words themselves stung and bruised, “No, I’m not. I’m not. Do it. Do it anyway. Even if temporarily, until we're outside and I can come back for him, until he’s outside and alive and sane. Just do it.”

Death nodded. “I will do my best.” He said, before stooping down and lifting the barely corporeal Sam up into his arms, still kicking and screaming, still with so much ease, “I will return for you.” He said, looking up. “I just need time with him. Will you be alright?” 

And he desperately hoped Lucifer would be. And that he would actually be able to make it back in to fetch him. Because it would break his nonexistent heart if he couldn’t, because after all this time and so many slights and wrongs, Lucifer was still family. He still liked to think of it that way, sometimes.

Lucifer’s gaze travelled across the horizon, left and right over everything that would remain, and he blinked, “I trust you. I’ll be alright. Do what you have to do.”

And Death nodded, and let Lucifer’s hand slip from his grip as both memories and fight slipped from Sam's head, grace pulling away a moment after, no harm, no fuss. And then together, they vanished.

And Lucifer waited. Hadn't entertained faith since the last time it failed him. Since Michael. He entertained faith now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is (probably) the last chapter of pure angst and we should be heading into plot territories now. Not that this entire fic isn't an angst fest and is basically porn-with-plot if general suffering is your porn of choice. But, well, here we go!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	6. A Time to Kill and a Time to Heal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trauma is a strange thing to dissect for two entities older than humanity itself. Love, as well, that of a creator, or of a human that was now more ancient than any one man had the right to be. All subjective, all so completely foreign, all too familiar in its disappointments.
> 
> Discussions ensue. And then there's Crowley.

Michael didn’t count. Not really.

And the spaces Sam had made didn’t feel right anymore, not when they were created by him and for him and stood barren without him. They shifted like the iridescence in a pool of oil, melting and spinning until finally the illusion was gone and all there was was Lucifer’s creations and the blackness that was finally all encompassing.

When Venus smeared and twisted and vanished everything finally rang hollow, and empty, and he was so fucking alone and it was the first hundred years after the fall all over again. The loss of it, the desperation, the heartbreak.

And Lucifer stared into nothing; for a long long time he did. Afterimages of things that were, still flickering before him, before they faded away slowly. And his shoulder shook slightly with a huffed chuckle. 

“There we go. There you go. Okay…”

And he turned away as the outlines of his vessel dissipated around him, as atoms of all that was physical and concrete and grounding trickled off of him, leaving only light tarnished with darkness, and grace so fretful it whirled and screamed and prayed and hoped and waited.

\----

Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of years of nothing. No interference from Michael, certainly no news from Death. The concept of time itself rendered obsolete with no markers to quantify it. No sunsets and no full moons, no midnight kisses on arbitrary new year eves, no humanity to sync the passage of seconds with their heartbeats. And then just like it extended endlessly, eternity finally ceased, and there were stirrings in the cage. 

Death stepped forward into the inky blackness, letting out a tired sigh. Everything had gone so terribly wrong. Castiel- that funny little angel that reminded him so painfully of Lucifer had played god and had reaped the consequences. Sam was, for lack of a better word, certifiable, and the Leviathans were released. And God was once again absent.

Even with nothing to occupy it the cage was still so hard to navigate it was maddening.

“Lucifer?” He called gently, head cocked to the side.

Lucifer had been humming an ancient hymn to himself as he drifted ever so slowly through the emptiness. No thoughts in his head really. He’d learnt to do just that. Reduce his existence into a song, or a single picture, or one concentrated emotion. Because the whole of him was too much and he had so very little. The eyes designed to pierce through matter and witness the very molecular construction of Being ached because there was nothing to witness. He had long then scratched them blind because he couldn’t bear how much they _wanted._ Every century or two, he healed them, and he devised images and small worlds and illusions that he always, always deemed lacking. He did keep hearing, though, because every millennium, if he could focus, if he could strain and tune in just right, he could hear the distant rustling of Michael’s grace. And for all the nothing that did, it was a small comfort. 

Death finally approached, following the faded echoing of music before he arrived at his destination. He shook his head, because he knew Lucifer either couldn’t see him or was far too unfocused to even attempt to. Perhaps both.

He let his vessel fade away and allowed his presence to gently intersect with Lucifer, spectral and bony hand placed on the ridge of one wing. “Lucifer,” He said again, and his voice was as loud as the slamming of coffin lids and as soft as the moroseful murmured conversation in a funeral parlor, echoing over each other in a perfectly calm cacophony. “I’m sorry it took me so long,” He spoke in Enochian, unsure whether or not English after so long without hearing it would be too jarring.

Lucifer flinched. Grace coiling on itself, hissing aggressively, fire crackling as the solar flares of a thousand suns burnt through the darkness, never managed to illuminate it.

“Death?” 

“I’m here.” Death lowered his hand, closing his eyes for a second. “Are you ready?”

Lucifer mumbled something indecipherable, something unstable and frantic and _wrong,_ as if he’d just been woken from a trance, from a dream, and language made no sense and there was nothing but pure and primal emotions, no medium to translate them. 

But Lucifer also knew how to center himself. How to wrap up the trauma that was the majority of his existence and bury it deep and rise above it. Because he was an archangel, after all. And he had God’s light within him, and he was made to persevere. 

And so in another instant, he had healed himself into something functional and sharp and focused. Wings unfurling, spreading, massive and still oh so prideful.

“How long… topside?”

“A few months. There was a lot going on.” Death admired, voice tinged in guilt. “I doubt you would believe me if I told you.”

“Samuel is... damaged. Possibly beyond repair at this point. The wall I built for him was shattered through no fault of his own. He’s seeing things. None of the healing or the bonding or the worlds you made together, either. The worst of what happened here, because it was far too much to remember it all and... well, trauma is easier to pick up on. I’m sorry.” He said. He really must have been going soft. Since when did he apologize?

Lucifer nodded silently. Because there was nothing to say. He’d wanted Sam to be fine. He truly did. He wanted to reintroduce the memories himself. He wanted to be there to sort through them, to explain them, to dissect the worst of them and clarify why they were _necessary_. But it is what it is and it shall be what it shall be. 

There was still gratitude to every thread of light that made him. “Thank you, for coming back. I’m ready.”

Death nodded sagely and carefully held Lucifer against himself as they departed. It was a struggle. The cage hadn’t been warned against himself or Sam the first time, but now... well, it was built for one creature and one creature alone, and it was built exceptionally well.

It was almost like a game of celestial tug-of-war, with the runes and spellwork of the cage, holding desperately at Lucifer’s grace because it wasn’t time yet, this wasn’t part of the story.

Blackness and empty faded and shifted to white, grey, everything in between pulsating in maddening spirals and patterns and razor sharp edges until... they were in an office. With mahogany paneling and shelves of heavy leather books and an ornately carved desk.

And it was real and there was nothing hiding behind it. It wasn’t an illusion.

With the light and colors and sounds and walls and gravity and air and space and dimensions, Lucifer was a child in a candy store. Entirely overwhelmed and yet absorbing more and more in. Filling himself to the brim with every sensory input the surroundings had to offer. His grace rustled and his wings relaxed just a tad. But there was no life within the walls or through the air, none of the microscopic organisms that dominated Earth and humans turned an unwillingly blind eye to. Not at Death’s headquarters.

And Lucifer moved with grace, fluid and unrestrained and free. It elated him. It hurt him after so, so long. It was all he is and he was so decidedly unhuman it lit the room up and resonated in its corners. 

“We’re not technically on Earth, hm?”

“No.” Death said, though a small smile was teasing at his lips at seeing Lucifer’s joy. “I don’t think it would be wise to risk that, yet.”

“It’s not terribly exciting here,” Death hummed, opening the door that led outside. Outside simply seemed to be a black and grey landscape with nary a plant nor animal to bedeck it, simply swirling sand and bones and... death.

The office was a door in the middle of everything. If one were to step outside they could walk around it- it was almost comical.

“You can create. Real things, not illusions. Though there is still some catching up to do.” Death closed the door again and offered, “Take a seat.”

Lucifer did, an expression of marvel and amusement on what may loosely be referred to as his face. 

“Is this witness protection? Are you hiding me from Father?”

Death allowed himself to chuckle softly. “I suppose you could call it that, yes. He has no dominion here.” He leaned back, perfectly at ease. “And I doubt you’re very well hidden. No doubt He knows we’re here. But like I said- He can’t barge in without permission.”

“Do you need anything?” He asked, tilting his head to the side just barely as a glass of cola appeared in his hand.

He always had a bit of a predilection towards unhealthier things if and when he ate. Maybe it was just pure enjoyment of the irony, maybe it was that he actually enjoyed the taste. Sometimes he couldn’t tell. But it tended to amuse the other beings- well, beings plus Dean Winchester- he spoke with to no end.

Lucifer glanced at the drink in Death’s hand and smiled easily. It did occur to him long ago that primordial beings as they are, there was always this urge to indulge in base and human things. Small pleasures that weren’t made for them, that shouldn’t mean anything to them, but still satisfied a craving that he didn’t quite understand. Because realms of Heaven and Hell and above and beyond had so little to offer in terms of entertainment, and Lucifer thought it rather endearing that this was the one thing they shared so intensely with humans. The need for stimulation, to soften the passage of time. If Time was a conscious being rather than a dimension, Lucifer thought he would be ruthless. Even more than his father. 

And to Death’s question, he answered placidly, didn't need to think it over, “Space to garden. If you don’t mind. I need something alive in my hands.”

Death nodded slowly, before simply waving a hand. “It is done.” He stood, taking a sip of his drink before he nudged the door open again to reveal a fairly large plot of soil outside. “You may end up drawing somewhat of a crowd. It’s not everyday you see something with a pulse, here, much less something green.” He hummed. “Garden all you like. I can try and fill you in on what’s been happening on Earth if you wish.”

Lucifer did want to know. Of course he did. There was this tugging pulling feeling that always connected him to Earth since Earth came to being. For how much he resented- well, didn’t care for, humans, he loved the little blue planet with all he is. 

“Yes, please. I’m all ears.”

“Mm. Well, Sam’s soulless body didn’t do anyone any favors. I’m sure you would have been able to figure that out. Ah- Eve made an appearance. The mother of all, not the first woman.” Death clarified softly, before continuing. 

“Let’s see… the demon Crowley is king of Hell. Heaven is being governed by Naomi.” He was skirting around the larger things for the moment, because like he said in the cage, he wasn’t entirely sure Lucifer would believe him.

Lucifer chuckled, hand rising to wave for a second, gesturing for a pause, “Crowley, really? That’s adorable.”

Lucifer didn’t like Hell. Didn’t like ruling it, didn’t like being there, didn’t like the scents or the sounds or the very air of it. All rotten and vulgar, tasteless. But Hell was his, and he’d have made something of it if he ever had the time. And the audacity on some of those demons, the sheer audacity… ridiculous. 

“Adorable? I think he’s doing a better job than you were.” And it wasn’t rude or mean, it was more of a teasing tone. “It’s… ’modernized.’ Odd, but effective.” Death looked out into the barrenness of his realm and finally said it all, “...Castiel opened up Purgatory.”

And Lucifer was going to comment on Hell again, but then he paused, “Oh… Not good. Leviathans then, huh? Why would he be so, hm, suicidal? And- I have a question before you proceed. Not that I particularly care, but," brows furrowed slightly, "why is Castiel still alive and kicking? I killed him.”

Death let out a heavy sigh. “It wasn’t my doing, I assure you. He was rebuilt. Resurrected.” He cleared his throat, apprehensive as he waited for Lucifer’s reaction before he continued on with the greater story.

And then there was the restrained fury, the disappointment, the utter refusal to believe that after so long, after so much, Lucifer still had it in him to hurt over his father’s will and end-plans and all the routes He took and made no sense and served no purpose. 

“So Dad. Yes. I- doesn’t matter. Please go on.”

“Well. The younger angels didn’t know about them. They were hushed up and hidden away after your fall because it might have been seen as evidence your Father could make a mistake.” He sighed. “There was civil war in Heaven. Castiel championed free will. Raphael, however, wished for things to remain as they had been. They... after Castiel consumed the souls of purgatory he killed them.” And of course there was no miraculous resurrection for Raphael, because they were the forgotten sibling. A subplot. A side character with no substance. And in the insignificance of it all, it was almost offensive.

Lucifer stirred. And then he stood, folding his wings around him and turning to stare up, at a sky that mirrored the ground below his feet. 

“Raphael is dead?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“But Dad knew. When he raised Castiel, he knew. He always knows. Now, of course, I don’t suppose he cares. Pity.”

“He does. And He still won’t admit to choosing favorites.” Death sighed softly. “You four are a special breed, Lucifer. I know this must be hard to hear after so long not seeing them. But... well, be glad for the three of you that remain.”

And Lucifer looked momentarily distracted by an ancient memory. Of times when it was all four of them, and Father, and the Darkness, and a Void they steered away from because it held no prisoners. And Death, too, and all the virgin planets and young galaxies still forming, still finding their path. And he remembered how he was perhaps the last of his brothers to receive Father’s attention and love so fully. Because the younger two, Raphael and Gabriel, Dad wasn’t around that much by then. And Michael tried to compensate, with guidance and firmness and discipline, and Lucifer tried to love them enough for both of them. And it was good, even when it wasn’t, even when anything but Father wasn’t enough. It was still good. 

“I gather Gabriel is alive too, then. Man, I suck at smiting. Good to know.”

Death gave an almost embarrassed smile. “Ah. Yes, he is. If and when you go back to Earth, don’t try to change that. He did nothing wrong aside standing up to you, and you deserved it.” He pointed out softly as he caught the look in Lucifer’s eye and became caught up in a similar track of thought.

It was always four. Four before the angels, four of that first generation. Bringers of light and happiness and hope for a budding universe. Nothing in that time before was truly malignant. Not until the mark.

It wasn’t Amara that was evil. Evil was barely a concept. It was the action of locking her away, of God isolating himself from his other half that brought corruption. That in turn spawned Lucifer’s pride and arrogance, and he spawned the next four. Two of them, actually. The horsemen first, appearing as man’s disobedience forced him into mortality, and the three new challenges that came with it. And then, of course, his princes. His own attempts at creation, the childish action of mirroring and copying his father and trying to do it better. 

Death shook his head, careful as he shared the worst of it, “Castiel broke the dam in Sam’s mind. At the moment, he’s confined to a psychiatric ward. After loosing the Leviathans into the world and the timely resurrection after, Castiel may have returned absent his memories, and consequently his identity.”

And Lucifer wanted to _end_ him. Because here’s Castiel, a nobody angel barely out of his diapers, wreaking havoc on Father’s precious humans and he unleashes an ancient nightmare on Earth, kills his brother, overtakes Heaven, drives _his_ vessel to a psychiatric ward. And for all Father’s omniscience he must have known, must have seen it coming. And He still left whatever vacation spot He currently resided in and actually meddled for once, did something, and raised him from the Empty to do it all. 

Righteous fury burnt bright, and the chair Lucifer was now pacing by… melted. The ground beneath it charred and cracked. Lucifer wanted something to destroy. 

Death stood. “Lucifer,” He warned softly. “Look at me.” He reached out and gently grabbed Lucifer by his side, halting his pacing. “I will not allow you to destroy what I’ve built up here. Where my children live.”

Because the reapers were his children, really, and while it was still more of an employer-employee relationship, he still cared for them in that respect. “I’m going to have you go into my office, where you can either sit and breathe or do whatever you want within those four walls. But not outside. Not here, not in your garden.” He paused for just a moment, “I can come in too, if you’d like. Use my vessel.” Offer him release, because now wasn’t the time to start preaching healthy coping mechanisms. 

Lucifer turned to him, swift and aggressive and violent. The whole of him soaked in crimson red, face no longer human or bearing the slightest resemblance to fixed features. Spiraling inwards like a waterspout, threatening to disintegrate everything in its way and suck it in. 

It was only a moment though. Because Death’s touch is calming. And the softness in his voice absorbs the frantic consuming edge that comes with rage, turns it into something manageable. 

Lucifer stilled himself. And he paused. Let the fire settle. And it was not easy. 

“I should be on Earth. I should be there making it right. I should get to Sam before he hurts himself. Because he will. I taught him to. He will.” 

“Not in this state. You shouldn’t.” Death shook his head. “I can check in on Sam. But I will not allow you to go down if you’re angry enough to do that.” He nodded down to the scorched earth and melted chair. 

“What you need to do right now is to calm down.” Vantablack wings with pinpricks and spirals of light slowly wrapped around the tangled emotions of Lucifer’s grace. “You're frustrated, furious. Let me help you.”

Lucifer shifted and turned and his grace whirled restlessly, but he let himself lean into the embrace, allowed the ever-present finality, the euthanasic effect of Death’s hold and all-encompassing release of him, to soothe him. 

It’s a very odd experience, to have his rage met with so much kindness. To wage wars and be offered peace. Lucifer rested against him.

“Then help me.”

Death guided Lucifer back inside, never once letting go of him. The room seemed to shift and expand around them because it was in no way, shape or form big enough to hold the two entities without their vessels. 

And he slowly sat down and held Lucifer against him, sighing something heavy and soft and inviting.

The high-pitched thrumming noise of grace and power and fury tapered off gradually. And Lucifer didn't believe his rage, or the violence that comes hand-in-hand with it, was anything to restrain or control. But in all the ways that Death has been kind to him, he was genuinely trying to pay back in kind. To not disturb or ruin a good thing. And as he acknowledged this, he considered honesty. He tried honesty. 

“I was made for war. My brothers and I, we were made to be powerful, to instill order, to fight for Father. I’m a weapon, Death; and as much as I shoot myself in the foot often, I don’t know if I can ever just… stop being so fucking angry.”

He spoke it softly, almost like he owed Death an explanation. The closest thing he knew to an apology without saying the words. 

“You will.” Death promised. “It will come in time, I’m sure of it.” He said, before pausing. “Perhaps you need to find an outlet. Gabriel did. And as much as you despise the pagans, they did help him. Gave him something to do besides fight and be that weapon.”

“Reapers aren’t very different from angels, you know.” He said almost tangentially. It was far fetched and rang a little silly but it would afford Lucifer protections on Earth, afford Earth protection from Lucifer. And perhaps... well, Death thought that perhaps the best way to truly see humans was in their final moments. Because even in such brief lives they went through so much and impacted so much. Pain and heartbreak and joy and life stuffed into a few short years. 

“I can offer you a position.”

Lucifer’s face wrinkled at the suggestion. And then he grinned, broad and almost cheerful. Which in turn escalated into a small chuckle. Like this was a joke in good spirits and something they could laugh about together because it was so outside the realm of possibilities. And then he stopped, and hummed, because it wasn’t a joke. Not really. And Lucifer knew that as much patience and leniency Death was willing to offer, Lucifer was still a time bomb that needed to be neutralized. But that wasn’t offensive in the slightest. He thought it only appropriate that be it him or Michael, or the other two who are mainly out of the picture now, they were meant to be feared. They were wrath and power and a force of nature. It was just what it was.

“All due respect, Death. I don’t think it’s for me. I’ll never have the patience, or the interest really. Too much mingling with humans and none of it in the fashion I’d enjoy.”

But it was also the fact that Lucifer will never not be an archangel. He wouldn’t even bear the thought. 

“I understand that you feel responsible for keeping humanity safe from me. Very reasonable, no doubt, I wouldn’t even claim to not understand your concern. Because I do. And while I’m willing to change, and… grow, I’ll never give up my grace or my essence or…”

Or Father’s light. 

“Would it be enough if I cross my heart and promise no Armageddon? I won’t end the world. I have no desire to. I don’t even want the throne, to Earth or Heaven or Hell, though speaking of Hell, I’ll have to have a word with Ramiel because I’m very disappointed.”

Death looked down at him. “At this point? No. It’s not.” He said pointedly. “I don’t think it would be wise to allow you out on your own at this point. I’m sure you understand.” He sighed, giving a soft smile and shaking his head.

“I’d prefer you to either stay here, garden, start to get over your anger, or visit Earth using the veil. But not fully. Not yet, I’m afraid.”

And Lucifer didn’t mind this conversation, even when it had a subtle claustrophobic sense to it. He was still high on the interaction, and visual input, and the simple joy of having someone to talk to. But he also knew his patience would wane all too quickly. And he was being straightforward and honest with Death because it was the only way he knew how to repay his kindness. Because a single lie was a slippery slope, and manipulation and false promises came so easy for Lucifer he almost actively had to stop himself from going there. 

“I’m sure you have better and more important things to do than babysit me, but, would a supervised visit to Earth be so bad? I don’t see how I can prove myself here either. And I’d like to… see Sam.”

Death wondered if, in all seriousness, there was any more harm to be done. Sam was already broken. In an isolated space. And perhaps Lucifer could even help with the boy’s condition. He certainly seemed to be able to do just that, in the cage.

He knew that this might feel like a slightly better prison. It was barren and empty except for the room and the new garden, and there was hardly any company because most reapers stayed on Earth. And after a while Death was hardly good company. 

“Why don’t you wait here a day before you do. You’ve just had a lot of news, most of it bad. But I will take you to see him tomorrow.”

And Lucifer nodded quietly with a small grateful smile, “I can do that. Thank you. For the time being, would you prefer a particular genus of flora? Your office could use some color.”

He said it lightheartedly, gaze scanning the room. 

Death chuckled. “Hm.” He looked around. It was a nice office, rather stately. “I always enjoyed lilies. But outside, plant whatever you’d like.” He said, standing. “You like roses, don’t you? Or am I remembering wrongly.”

And at this, Lucifer crossed his legs beneath him, shifted to sit facing Death. And he looked wistful, almost, but also in very good spirits, “Sammy got me lilies once. I asked for them specifically. Not my absolute favorite, but always a symbol, aren’t they? Love, funerals, the cleansing that comes with death. I was being poetic, I guess, and Sam had wanted to see me for the first time. I thought it fit well.”

“You do like your poeticism, don’t you?” Death leaned back a little. “In how you dealt with Sam, at least. I doubt there was really a time you hurt him that wasn’t fraud with irony or some sort of karmic justice.” No matter how deluded Lucifer's sense of judgement was, but he wouldn’t say that. “What kind? Did that have any significance to you, or was it simply lilies in general?”

“Didn’t specify kind. He didn’t have vision. Wouldn’t have been fair to ask for that much.”

“Ah. So they were more of an approximation of lilies, then.” Death surmised, humming to himself. “Did they actually turn out well?”

Lucifer's gaze wandered, the memory flashing before his eyes, “I made the garden. He only did the picking. He did bring lilies, but also magnolia and canna flowers, a stray daisy in the middle. He did his best.”

“Do you think you truly loved him, Lucifer? Do you think you ever did?” And the question was soft and firm and curious all at the same time, with a heavy weight behind it.

“I don’t know. I suppose what I feel for Dad-- felt, is not a healthy frame of reference. But if it’s my only reference, then no. But I felt… I feel something for him. Tenderness. I never hurt him out of malice, I think. I never hated him.”

And Lucifer blinked, distracted. Something within him stirred, “I liked his company. I liked his questions, his curiosity, his enthusiasm. And he had this, uh, this kindness, this empathy. There was endurance to it, strength that baffled me. I liked it when he laughed. And I liked it when he suffered. And I loved it when he loved me.”

Death nodded slowly, silent for a second as he closed his eyes. “Love can be very hard to quantify for things like us. But it seems like you might have.” And if Lucifer had loved Sam there was hope he could let go of the hate for the rest of humanity. Because Death didn’t know love, he doubted he could, but what Lucifer said sounded like it. In the descriptions he’d heard either from humans on their deathbeds desperate to stay just a minute more to say goodbye or from the books he’d glance in when he was on earth. 

“And that’s good.”

“Is he hallucinating me?”

“Yes.” Death nodded, his tone neutral, informative. “Anything from you being a general annoyance to you stringing him up and torturing him. He hasn’t slept in weeks. ...He should be dead. It’s a cruel joke that he’s not.”

And something about that _pleased_ him. Because Lucifer always wanted to leave a mark, a claim, to stay amidst the ruins and be remembered. And it would have pleased him just the same if Sam only remembered the “good.” The kindness and the love and the company. It would please him most if he’d remember both. 

There was an intimacy to the torture that Lucifer cherished just as much as their lovemaking. It was raw and honest and he was open and Sam was open and none of it claimed to be anything that it’s not. Because in those moments, Lucifer saw him, behind any veneers of bravado or the wits to mask his truths. And it was cruel and beautiful and disarming and endearing perhaps in all the ways it shouldn’t be. But it was.

But Lucifer would never want Sam to die, or to lose himself irrevocably, or to crumble and lose his words. That would be malice and contempt and a vendetta and he never felt those for Sam. He only inflicted pain he could heal. He always healed him, after. He always made up for the bad with so, so much good.

“I’d like to perhaps fix that. The sleeping, at least.”

“If you could…” Death sighed as if it wouldn't hurt to try. “It May be difficult. But I am willing to help. I cannot build another wall, though. Not without destroying him completely.”

The fact Lucifer could be pleased with this was concerning, at least a little. Because Death knew they loved differently but Sam didn’t recall any of that. He couldn’t. He got cruelty for no reason, games with no meaning, and never a shred of comfort that wasn’t a malicious lie made only to be ripped away. Not the kindness Lucifer gave in the cage at all.

And Lucifer was drawing nonsensical geometrical shapes on the floorboards below him with a finger-pad. And when he spoke, he sounded astute and firm, exuding experience and confidence and a general air of poise. Because this he knew, this he studied and experimented with and often found rather intriguing.

“Sam did this often when I wasn’t around. He’d create apparitions to punish himself for whatever new brand of guilt he was dealing with at the time. They were consistently crueler than I could ever be. The keyword here is ‘consistently.’ Because I was cruel, yes, but never for longer than he could bear. I suppose this is what’s happening now.”

He paused and looked up at Death, “Whether he feels guilty for giving in to me or… leaving me, I’m not sure. I’m guessing a mixture of both. And he’s repressing the good memories, or, um, the version of me that would offer healing, or respite, or kindness, because he doesn’t believe he had earned it, or that he deserves it. And so he remains stuck in this loop of purely destructive abuse. I like to think I wasn’t destructive; I was reformative, even when I took it a little too far.”

He paused again, and this time he was toying with an orb of blueish light, spinning it with two fingers on each hand, “I might be able to trigger the repressed memories. And if not, then at least I’ll give him the respite the hallucinations never will. But I’ll need a vessel, Death. I can’t approach him as another phantom from the cage. He already has one.”

He looked around the room, “You seem partial to Crowley. If you can, if you don’t oppose, and if you two are amicable, have him send over my previous vessel. We have no time for consent, and I did have Nick’s body preserved after Sam said yes. It’s somewhere in Hell, I think. And I gather if I use it sparingly, it’ll hold me long enough to serve its purpose.”

And then a hint of tenderness flashed in his eyes, and he asked softly, “Is he in Heaven? Nick… Did he reunite with his family?”

“Do you think they would let him in? Even if he was deserving?” Death asked flatly, deciding to leave it at that as he stood. Because even though Nick had been slated for heaven, with Raphael in charge he wouldn’t allow it.

Even if at that point it had been Naomi, she wouldn’t have either. Because no matter how pure in life Nick had been or how much saying yes to Lucifer wasn’t a sin, they wouldn’t abide by having that sort of soul in Heaven.

Nick was far from being treated poorly in Hell, though. His soul showed promise and it still shone with the remnants of Lucifer’s grace. He rose quickly in the ranks, perhaps exclusively as a result of that.

“And I will speak with Crowley now, if you’re anxious to get started. Feel free to garden, or look through any of my books while I’m gone. Just don’t leave.” Death said, and with a final nod of acknowledgement, he disappeared.

\----

Death didn’t particularly like Hell. It was cloying and cluttered and a maze, just like the cage. But... he did somewhat enjoy the reactions of demons that saw him in the halls. 

He strode forwards into the throneroom, cane clacking on the floor as he did.

“Crowley.”

Crowley wasn’t having the best week, or month, or year really. Not with Castiel turning on him and then the fucking Leviathans and fucking Dick Roman and everything was shit because how could it not be, for once? But Crowley does what he does best. He presses on. He makes the best out of a bad situation. He finds silver linings. 

At least Hell itself did relatively well. He knew he had a lot to prove to earn loyalty and respect. With him not being the next in line and all. A salesman, some demons liked to whisper when they thought no one was listening; one of their own. But the slimey bootlickers would have preferred royalty. One of the princes. Same old, same old and all the ancient worn-out proceedings that kept this place miles behind its potential. Lucifer may have had vision for Hell some eons ago but then Lilith revolved her entire rule around bringing him back. And can we move on already?

He was right in the middle of an argument with a crossroad demon when Death showed up. “Argument” because demons still had the nerve to talk back sometimes. He’d get to that later.

And Crowley blinked at the unexpected visitor, wasn't exactly a regular occurrence or one that was ever awaited with fondness, “Ah, Death. What brings you to our little slice of heaven down here?” He asked, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other. “Funny thing is, I saw a dead crow just this morning. Always thought that one superstition was rubbish, but here we are.”

There was no disrespect in his tone, even when the put on ease may have suggested it. Just the kind of puzzlement he always masked with friendly banter. 

Death gave a small smile. Of all of Hell’s ruler’s he might respect Crowley the most. “I came to ask about Lucifer’s old vessel.” He said. Straight to the point.

And Crowley’s brow creased, just the slightest hint of anxiety at the corner of his lips. He knew he should have destroyed this one the second he took the throne, “What about it, exactly?”

“Does it matter? I simply want to know whether you’ve destroyed it, and if not, if you would consider parting with it. Willingly.” Because there was always the possibility Death would simply have to take it. He wasn’t opposed to that at all, in all honesty. He was set on what he wanted to do.

None of this sounded good. Crowley could feel it. And he had half a mind to excuse himself and go send a dispensable demon to check on the cage. They wouldn’t know how to get inside. Even he wouldn’t dare step inside. But is it cracked? Is it open? Is he…

He scooched forward slowly, brows raised and fists still clenched around the armsets of the throne. And he spoke carefully, probing for an answer he hoped against all hope wasn't what he was going to get, “Suppose it’s destroyed… would that conclude your business here?”

Because maybe Heaven wanted the vessel destroyed. Though he doubted that on so many levels. And it wouldn’t be Death they’d send. He couldn’t really envision any possible scenario that didn’t smell of disaster and impending doom. 

Death paused. Of course it would, and he would either have to fabricate a vessel himself or find a willing human- which he wasn’t entirely keen on, either. “Seeing as you’ve gone with a hypothetical I’ll assume it is intact. Where?” 

And he didn’t want to deal with Crowley’s specific brand of bureaucracy and red tape right then, not at all. Again: he didn’t enjoy being in Hell any longer than he had to. 

“I don’t exactly have all day, Crowley. Where is it?”

“Don’t bloody tell me what I have in mind is what’s going on here. Because if it is, God forbid-“ He held up his hand as if to gesture angrily before he realized he wasn’t exactly talking to someone on a peer level, “-I’d like some notice. To at least find a small corner of nowhere and help myself to quite an extended vacation.”

He left his throne and reached for a small shelf in the corner, poured himself a drink and finished it in earnest

“Not in quite the way you imagine. But yes.” Death shifted his grip on his cane. “I’m not so idiotic as to add him to the whole mess of things the world is dealing with. He will be supervised.” He explained, letting out a put upon sigh. 

“Now, Crowley, if you please.” He looked more annoyed than anything. And in circumstances like this and to a thing like Crowley, an annoyed Death was far more terrifying than the threat of the Leviathans or even Lucifer coming back and jump starting another apocalypse.

All the royal bastards ever do is fuck shit up, and then it’s up to the poor buggers at the frontlines like himself to make it right or bear the brunt of it. Crowley was more sick of it than he could safely display. And he scoffed, just barely, “Right. Of course.”

He waved a hand, voice escalating in volume and entirely different in tone, “Simon. Lucifer’s old vessel. Quickly. Wrap it up all nice and ready to-go.” 

The demon scurried out of the throne room a little too enthusiastically. And Crowley cursed under his breath. Because what Hell needed right now was a bunch of fanboys spreading the news that Daddy is back and… yeah, not a good week. 

“Where is he, if I might ask?”

“Where do you think I’d be keeping him?” Death asked, as if he were a disillusioned teacher dealing with a particularly dull student. “I have my own realm.”

“Most people in your position tend to have a little more... deference.” And Death couldn’t tell if his tone was harsh or not. He merely meant to point it out. He was caught between being offended or surprised over it, really, because although there was respect in Crowley’s tone he cared far more for his own needs and self preservation than anything, and it showed through painfully.

Crowley shook his head slightly, shoulders slumping. And he murmured in the fakest most exaggerated tone he could muster and get away with, “Sincerest apologies. I’m only your humble servant.” 

Because Crowley picked his battles, and this wasn’t a battle, this was literal suicide. He had long then abandoned any ridiculous inclination to playing the hero. The graves were filled with those. He’ll live to fight another day. 

And Death didn’t react, one way or the other. He simply waited until the other demon arrived, Nick’s body slung over one shoulder. “Much thanks.” He said, reaching out to accept it into his own arms. And when his fingers brushed against the demon’s arm, his body lit up with orange light and he was left fallen on the ground. 

“I hope you weren’t attached to that one in particular. I doubt you or I need any word of this getting out.” Death said somewhat coldly.

And Crowley’s pressed lips curled into a small impressed smile, “Appreciate it.”

Death gave a small incline of his head and disappeared, back to his own domain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick necessary disclaimer: 
> 
> Lucifer, in this story, is based exclusively on S05 version, the same guy who got all teary eyed killing Gabriel and tried to reason with Michael so they don't end up fighting and didn't stop whining for a second about how much he loved his father. So yeah, feelings. But while we'll continue to explore those feelings, and the capacity for love generally, entirely from his POV, please keep in mind that a character's pain/past/strife does not automatically redeem them. And while Death here attempts to kill the Devil with kindness, he's not the moral compass of this narrative either. 
> 
> Also, have you guys seen The Boys yet? Because you really really should.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	7. And a Time to Refrain from Embracing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Gotta say, Sammy, it’s like looking in a funhouse mirror.”
> 
> Sam’s condition is poor, to put it lightly. And Lucifer would like to think he was never that cruel, never would treat Sam like Sam treated himself, never would have been as terrible as the hallucination that ate away at Sam’s psyche and body. Under the crushing weight of too many memories, most of which are blocked just out of reason of not being able to process thousands of years, Sam would like to disagree.

Lucifer was crouching in front of a row of sunflowers. One finger held above them, swaying left and right in the air, shining so bright. The flowers strained and bent backwards to follow his light. And he was smiling, something that looked like peace.

He hummed without turning, “Is Lilium Parryi okay? I left some in your room.”

“I’m sure it’s perfect. Thank you.” Death nodded, before stooping to lay Nick’s corpse in the sand. “I come bearing gifts.” He said, striding forward to stand behind Lucifer while being careful not to tread on anything he’d planted.

Lucifer shifted to stare at the body. And he leaned forward to trace a line along the curve of its shoulder with a fingertip, “Thank you.” He whispered it to Death, and then with his palm splayed over the dead man’s half parched and cracked face, he breathed again, to Nick, “Thank you…”

Death watched on, tilting his head to the side as he did. The odd sort of reference, thanks, whatever it was Lucifer had for Nick was odd to see. Death had never stopped to ponder that relationship. Perhaps he should have, seeing as Lucifer spent more time with Nick as a vessel. Thinking back, he thought it almost suited him better than Sam.

Maybe that was because Nick was willing. A more casual vessel as opposed to the formality of Sam.

And Lucifer’s light whirled and bursted outwards, a tsunami of brilliance that drowned the entire garden for a moment, until it faded bit by bit, and the angel was no longer there. And the body on the ground stirred. Eyes snapped open. 

Nick always felt too tight, too humble, too small, but oh so very welcoming. There was a generosity to him that warmed Lucifer’s heart. Because throughout the time Lucifer was inside him, Nick knew, when Lucifer let him up, that he was burning. That he was cracking slowly, diminishing, withering… and yet he never wanted Lucifer out. Never asked for anything other than to occasionally be awake and aware enough to witness the glory that thrummed beneath his skin. Lucifer never denied him. 

He pulled up. Stretching stiff limbs and bending his joints, “There we go. Home away from home.”

Death nodded, looking him over, curious, “Comfortable?”

Lucifer got on his feet, curled bare toes in the soil, “Comfortable? I wouldn’t say so. I imagine that’s how Sam felt in the Impala. Not particularly the mansion he deserves, but familiar and nice and cozy.”

Dismissing a reference he didn't understand, Death pursed his lips and gestured for Lucifer to follow him inside. “Are you wanting to go topside already? Or will you decide to wait?”

“I’m ready when you are.”

Death nodded and reached out to turn off the light in his office because even though there wasn’t anything powering it at all and there was no money of any sort to save, it still gave it a nice sense of ‘closed’ while he was away.

And then reality shifted and bent around them, grey and black and the new splashes of yellow fading and twisting and hemorrhaging in on themselves until they passed the full spectrum of color and arrived at yellows walls and hospital whites.

The pair stood outside a locked door, impossibly innocuous. “I will stand out here, give you two some privacy.” Death informed. 

Lucifer’s lower lip trembled with something wild and anxious and passionate and eager and longing. Barely contained. He nodded, smoothing his shirt, exercising those small minute biological quirks that came with wearing a human. He hadn’t been in a human in so, so long, even when he pretended to be. 

“Gotcha. I’ll behave.”

And without further ado, he pushed the door open and stepped in slowly. 

\----

Sam was sitting up against the headboard, his hands folded in his lap. His eyes red rimmed and puffy and undercut by bags, and his face haggard. He’d barely been eating. Had to be forced to a couple of days ago and he could almost still feel the maggots crawling down his throat and burrowing into his flesh.

When the door creaked he slowly raised his eyes. He looked too tired to do anything. To fight back. He said nothing, only shifting to lie down on the bed and curl up on his side, hugging his knees up to his chest.

Sam had this look of the damned about him. Guilty and judged and convicted. Had this frantic edge about him, that of a man with a price on his head and the devil on his back. Haunted. Hunted. Too drained to run.

Lucifer gave himself a moment.

Sam wouldn’t know the difference. The lines between reality and illusion, and delusion, have been blurred and fucked to hell and back for thousands of years on end. This, what was happening here, was just the cherry on top.

Lucifer scanned the room, scanned the soul, scanned the mind. The connection he had with Sam's consciousness was never entirely severed. Forged with the true vessel and consolidated in fire and liquid nitrogen, in millenia of perfect molecular entanglements. Were Sam in the deepest pit of the ocean, or on fucking Mars, Lucifer would still have access to his dreams, every alleyway in his head, and every figment of his imagination. See them as if they were his own.

But the hallucinations were nowhere to be found right now. Good.

He didn't say anything, just moved to Sam's side of the bed and lowered himself down to sit. Nick's chest, his chest now, heaved. He didn't touch him.

“I’ll make him go away, Sam. Would you like that? A few hours to sleep?”

Sam flinched away from him, tugging the small pillow he had close to his chest. He closed his eyes and shook his head weakly because Lucifer had done this before and he never slept more than five minutes and he always woke up to something he could have been able to prevent if he wasn’t so weak.

“What’s the point? You’re lying.” He murmured, unafraid of punishment because he was done with trying to avoid it anymore. It was better to take it than to spend the energy. “Just go.” He croaked, brow creasing just barely as if that alone took a Herculean amount of effort.

Lucifer nodded slightly, merely assessing the situation and finding the reaction perfectly reasonable. Could almost see Sam's train of thought, the engagement he'd allow himself because it didn't matter anymore, and the seemingly false promises he wouldn't entertain, because it didn't matter anymore.

It was so good to be here. So fucking good. But the familiarity of their very last interaction was mangled and broken and it felt like they were meeting again for the first time. Lucifer would mourn that later. Right now, he’d fix it. 

He drew his hand closer, wrapped cold strong fingers around Sam’s wrist and pulled his hand to him, eyes never leaving his face, never blinking. Whatever tactility the illusion had, it probably mirrored Lucifer’s touch. But Sam’s brain wouldn’t know how to mirror his grace. The quiet hum of it, the pulsations of something raw and ancient and powerful. Like a heartbeat, steady and pumping energy and light. 

He forced Sam’s fist open with little to no resistance, and stared at broken nails holding on by a thread. If he flicked one, it would fall. Tempting, but he didn't do it.

“I am real. Just little old me. Just me, Sammy.”

A whisper, firm and resolute, and then he healed them. Just the nails, bloody and frail. A very small amount of grace. And it was a hurricane of familiar. 

Sam yanked his hand back, eyes wide and scared and brimming with tears as he stared down at it. He shook his head frantically and pressed back so far he fell off the bed and he kept going after he fell to the floor, cowering back in the corner.

He didn’t understand. He stared down at his hand and his breath was quick and panicked because he knew it wasn’t an illusion and the grace he just felt was different than the grace his own mind manufactured, cold and hard and one solid, unwavering thing.

Never that cold though. Never that fluid.

“No, no, you can’t- you’re not real, it’s not- not real, it’s not-“ and he dug his freshly healed nails into the old, still open cut on his opposite hand even though it never worked anymore, but desperation knows no logic.

Lucifer watched silently, gaze intent and focused and absorbing every little twitch, every little input. He raised a brow slightly when Sam dug at a certain spot in his hand, guessing the significance immediately. 

“If it didn’t work against a hallucination, it won’t work against me. Don’t be stupid.”

The last three words slipped unfiltered. Old habits. He breathed in and out, reminding himself to go easy. 

“Let’s assume I’m real. Let’s assume I’m out of the cage and we’re both right here. Do you really want to be cowering all the way across the room, Sam? Come…”

And the one-worded order carried so much conditioned obedience it never failed past perhaps the first few years in the cage. 

Sam, a starved sleep-deprived mass of primal terror and mind-numbing shock and deeply ingrained learned behavior, scrambled into hands and knees and pushed himself up to stagger towards the bed because he barely had the energy to stand.

Barely had the energy to think.

He collapsed somewhere next to Lucifer's leg and threw half his weight against the edge of the mattress, gripped weakly at him, and somehow, for some reason, still rested his head against his thigh and _sobbed_.

"Please stop."

Sam didn’t know what kind of new torment this was. The memories were jumbled and gruesome and just flashes of gore and cruelty and agony and the hallucinations were more of the same. Didn't matter at the moment if he was just getting crazier, if he was just slipping further into his own delusions. Because this didn't happen, not then and not now. And the fingers carding through his hair ever so slowly were never this soft, never came with no agenda, must be a setup.

“I won’t hurt you. I’ll help you sleep. Two hours. I’ll be right here. Will you do that for me?”

 _you won’t, you won’t because you never do I’d say yes if I knew I wasn’t going to wake up to being skinned alive again_ -

Lucifer chuckled a little too fondly, patted on the space behind him, offered an arm out for support, "Come on. Up."

And Sam only wanted to scream, half crawling, half dragging himself up and onto the bed, legs moving like a baby deer on unsteady hooves. Until there were arms around his waist, pulling him up and sliding right next to him, draping around him and drawing him in.

"Please stop..."

But Sam was frozen, and lying oh so very still and stiff and terrified on the devil's chest as the latter paused to fluff a pillow and angle it just right and then leaned back and took Sam down with him.

“Good, that’s good. Let’s rest. Close your eyes. No dreams, no nightmares, just static noise. Atta boy.”

 _Please stop_.

Sam wanted to rest. More than anything, he wanted to close his eyes. And whatever fight or flight response that was once trained out of him, well, it remained dormant now. So tired, eyes so heavy; it's so fucking cold.

Sam remembered a twisted sense of safety that still kept him on his toes.

"No thoughts. Just static noise"

Sounded like an order.

Took him a good thirty seconds to work up the courage to close his eyes. And when he did, for once, blessedly, there was nothing. He fell asleep near instantly, slumped boneless in Lucifer’s hold.

\----

Lucifer looked at him. Not in the way a human would look at another. No, really _looked._ Saw the blood coursing through his veins, heavy and slow and malnourished. Saw his heart, thudding a little too fast, trying to push some life-force into a failing system. Saw behind the walls of his brain, where monsters and guilt and darkness lurked, clawing their way out to play. He pressed a hand to his head and shut them up. He couldn't entirely eliminate them. But he could keep them at bay for now. He probed further inside, to rooms of memories that were locked up and hidden, far and deep inside. He wouldn’t open all doors at once. It would overwhelm him worse than all memories of torture combined. He picked and chose, let a single memory slip, of one night where they laid on a freshly created field and stargazed and talked for hours. Just that. There was no kindness or tenderness or love to it. Just ease, just conversation, just something beautiful to stare at. 

And Sam slept for seven full hours. Lucifer didn’t stir until the boy woke up on his own. 

And it was obvious when he did, even though he kept his eyes closed and struggled to keep his breathing even. Because every muscle in his body tensed and he slowly eased his hips away from Lucifer’s. His throat bobbed as he swallowed and every second he cringed further in on himself, starting to shake with silent fear. His eyes snapped open and he froze.

Realistically, he knew the bed shouldn’t be enough for three people. That enough told him that _yes_ , one of the Lucifers was real. And he didn’t know whether to be terrified or relieved. 

_Rise and shine, Sammy. Did we enjoy our little break?_

Sam instinctively pressed back against the solid weight still wrapped around him, that still hadn't spoken a word. Just breathed softly, a little too regularly, seemed like the lesser of two evils. It still felt like a trap.

"No, no, what's- why-"

Lucifer watched the hallucination of himself curiously. A very erratic version of him, too loud and disorderly. He may have had somewhat similar moods, when he was too bored or too eager. But it was an odd choice of all the faces of him to project, he thought. Maybe because this was the one that didn’t care most. That was like a child smashing a toy against the wall, consistently, on and on and on. He sighed.

“I’m slightly disappointed. I did a lot better than _that.”_

It looked up and gave an empty, almost knowing smile, before focusing back in on Sam.

_This is fun, isn’t it, Sam? Gotta say, it’s like looking in a funhouse mirror._

Sam curled up and held his hands over his head because maybe if he couldn’t see, he could fall back asleep, where it was empty and quiet and he was still so fucking tired. “Make it stop. Make it stop.”

The thing, the hallucination, laughed and shook its head, gripped Sam's wrist and yanked his hand back away from his face.

_What, you think the real me is any better? Think he’s come here to save your pathetic ass? Sam, Sam, come on. That’s sad, even for you._

Lucifer chuckled briefly, just a huff of air, almost involuntary. Amused. He wrapped a tighter arm around Sam, “Ha! He’s funny.”

And then he pressed his palm at the back of Sam’s head and shoved him into his chest some more, so he was hiding between his arms and didn't have to look if he didn't want to, “Baby… so cruel to yourself. Why? Let’s talk. I’ll make it better.”

Sam let out a broken sounding whimper and made himself as small as possible in Lucifer’s arms, at this point trying so desperately to hide away or disappear or just fucking die already because two was too much. It was too much.

“Why are you doing this?”

It was a whisper, sounded like a wail.

_What do we say, Sam? Come on._

And Sam cringed, and any hope of this being a reprieve, or a break, or some sick form of mercy he was perhaps finally affording himself, was thrown out of the window because, “You can’t torture someone who has nothing left for you to take away.”

_That’s right. Good boy. Because right now, to me? You’re boring. And you know we don’t want that, do we? So you get to sleep. Sure. You get to hide away and have someone new to talk to because I’m just that generous. Small kindnesses, tokens of affection. And Sam? All this is going to hurt so much more after that._

Lucifer didn’t want to admit that this was entertaining. That the parts of him that revelled in watching something beautiful break so slowly and meticulously wanted to just sit back and watch. Not indefinitely, no, perhaps a few more hours. And then he’d work on fixing it and keep his promises and prove he’s the changed man/archangel he was expected to be. 

And maybe if Death weren’t right at the door he would have done just that. Maybe, he wasn't sure. Because something else was pulling on him and demanding actualization. Something warm and possessive and territorial and so, so tender for the boy curled desperately between his arms. 

He exhaled.

And he snapped his fingers and the hallucination faded. Temporarily. Something akin to Sam’s little self-harm trick. 

“Sit up and look at me and listen.”

Sam jerked, pressing closer to him for a split second before he slowly sat, brow creased as he stared up at him, "I don't under-"

“Don’t scream.”

And Lucifer drove a hand through Sam’s chest. So sudden and abrupt it took his breath away. The invasion itself was excruciating, but when Lucifer wrapped fingers around his soul, they were soft and gentle. Cold grace against the troubled fretful orb of damage and disarray. And the essence of what made the archangel recognized every thread there. After millenia of separation, Sam’s soul must remember too. Because they were so close, they held on too tight, they spiraled together, spinning and entangled, for an eternity. And like a muscle memory, in all the ways energy cannot be created or destroyed, the connection sustained. 

“This… is real. This, your little hallucination can’t do. This is me, and you, and everything that remains and will remain between us ad infinitum. This can’t be fabricated, Sam.”

Sam’s mouth opened in a silent scream as he was breached, veins on his neck standing out before he fell against Lucifer’s chest and let out a weak sob because he could feel it all and it was terrible and wonderful all at once, and oh so earth-shattering in its familiarity. Because deep down he still remembered what it was like and buried even deeper was the fact that he missed it.

“Lucifer-“ He gasped the name out like a prayer. “Too much, it’s too much, please- Lucifer-“

And the expression on Lucifer’s face was too firm, too sharp, too restrained. Because if he let himself be, he’d get his “yes” right now and that would be it. He'd walk out of here a king. And as beautiful as that sounded, it didn't sound nearly as charming as this little reunion was, now.

There was also the deal. He still needed to abhold the deal.

He yanked his arm out. 

“Tell me. Sam. Say it. Tell me what’s real and what isn’t. Tell me who can crush you right now and who can build you right back up. No cheap tricks, no shred of doubt, all cards on the table. Look at me and say it.”

Sam gasped and wept like a fucking child, couldn't register what was happening or what it meant because every fabric of his soul ached and his brain was mush. Felt like the wall crumbling all over again and there were no coherent thoughts, just feelings. Just need and shock and horror and _please no more._

He clawed at Lucifer’s back and screwed his eyes shut. “You’re real, y- you’re real, I’m sorry, sorry, please!” He shook his head, because it was too much and it was all wrong because Lucifer had never been like this, except for the nagging doubt in his mind, except for the images of a clear sky full of stars when it should have been fire and brimstone.

Lucifer held him for a long, long while, through moments where he thrashed and moment where he slumped and moment where he just screamed into the ether as if some invisible force still owed him an answer. Just like the good old days. Close and tight and so very cold. His grace vibrating at the skin contact, a distant melody against Sam’s ear. He stroked his hair, the other hand rubbing his shoulder and arm softly. And he soothed and shushed and whispered with kindness that was more Heaven than Heaven ever was. 

“So beautiful and good for me. I missed you, Sam. Missed you so much. I’d have counted the days if I had days. But you remember the cage, and the sun never rose again after you left. I didn’t let it. Didn’t feel right. But here we are.”

He lowered his head to kiss between strands of hair, “You need me and I need you and that’s okay. Nothing feels more right, does it? Did you miss me? It would hurt if you didn’t.”

“I don’t understand-”

Sam pulled back without warning, pushed out of Lucifer's hold a little too frantically. There was a sudden flood of memories and they were overwhelming and intimate and glorious and _beautiful, beautiful, beautiful_... and wrong.

Wrong in sickening maddening nauseating ways.

“Let go of me. Now- get off.”

Lucifer held his arms out in front of him in an exaggerated gesture of surrender, and tilted his head, tone meant to placate but came out a tinge irritated, “Okay, okay, calm down now… I wanted to get something in you, uh, food that is, before we sit and talk. But if you want to talk right now, let’s.” 

“I don’t want to talk.” Sam backed up and off the edge of the bed, eyes wide and blinking rapidly. “I want you- this all to stop. How are you out? How? What are you going to do to me?”

“The how is a very long story…” Lucifer hummed, pursing his lips, and he didn’t move further. He didn’t attempt anything. 

“I’m… somewhat glad you’re up on your feet and feeling well enough. And I’m not going to do anything to you, Sam. You’ve miraculously managed to do a lot worse to yourself than I’d ever allow. I need you to calm down and breathe.”

And he didn't mean to, not exactly, but his tone grew darker. Lucifer never dealt well with rejection. And he didn’t expect this to be easy. So he tried to push through the throes of it. 

“Let’s fix your mental health and save your life and then you can snap at me all you want. Don’t be difficult.”

Sam clenched his jaw. “I don’t want anything from you. After everything- what, you think I’m just going to... welcome you back in with open arms? Are you that- that-“

He shook his head, scrubbing hands that trembled uncontrollably over a pale face. He couldn't find the word. Couldn't find any words.

“Fuck off. Leave me alone. At least the hallucination doesn’t rape me.” He spat, pressing back a little further and breathing a lot faster and it hurt, hurt, hurt. Hurt so much he couldn't bear his own skin.

And Lucifer clicked his tongue, pulling his legs up to cross them beneath him on the bed, “But Sammy, you literally just did. Welcome me with open arms and all. I’m not asking for much… Because whatever it is you have playing darts in your noggin, it knows where it hurts and it’ll keep aiming there. Because it’s all you, buddy, and you’re hell-bent on killing yourself, it seems. I just want to help. I feel responsible.”

“You are.” Sam shook his head, the simple words dripping with red-hot resentment, all-encompassing rage. Because he could see it so clearly now, could see the sickness of it all, the toxicity, could see the degradation, the indoctrination, everything, everything that stung and burnt and he was made to want it, and his stomach churned with a disgust so brutal he wanted to vomit his guts out.

"I don’t want any help from _you_. I’ll be fine, I'll be fine. Go. Get the fuck out.”

And he won't be fine. Would he ever be fine? He wanted to peel his skin off and bleed himself dry, flush out remnants of grace, of fire and tenderness and the chill nestled in his bones, and scrub his insides off fingerprints inked on every organ and every vein, binding contracts extending in perpetuity with no exit clause. Except he did sign himself over. He did that, did that, did that.

Won't be fine. But he couldn't care less if that finally killed him. He'd made his peace with that.

Lucifer’s eyes drifted to the door. Because right now, he wanted violence. He wanted to slam him against the wall and crush his ankles so he can’t go anywhere if he tried. He wanted to force the conversation. He wanted to fuck him and love him and hear him scream and pray. 

“I’m not going anywhere. And you’re being a child. I walk out of this door, four days later, your organs are shutting down again. Now you might want to die, Sam. I understand. But I’m not letting it happen.”

Always so fucking final. Always no room for argument. The good old claustrophobia.

Sam slid down to sit on the floor and held his head in his hands. His limbs didn't work right, his head reeled. Every pore oozed hate, and venom, and heartbreak. And this terrible, terrible nausea, the darkness clouding his vision and the cage a living breathing piece of history, their third in the room, their hostage, their captor, a tyranny standing between them all too bare and obscene int its clarity, awaiting trial.

"Sam. Come on. You know I'm not leaving. You know we're having this conversation. Let's talk..."

"Fine. Talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback means the world to us. Thank you so much for reading!


	8. Remember Thy Wonders of Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very brief dive into Sam's memories.

“What do you remember?”

“It’s... coming back in waves. Since you touched me. There’s a lot of it, a lot- I can't- oh god, oh my god. I remember the nothingness before everything, the dd-dark, and it's, huh, freezing, burning, paralyzing me. Then the- the room, the emptiness, the loneliness, Lucifer, the loneliness. And-"

And Sam is splayed and spread on an altar again, ribcage split and shattered and the Devil is diving in, nuzzling and breathing him in. And he is shredding his boy-king's heart with his nails and kissing it, kisses him senseless, bites through his lungs and licks his bones clean. And he's whispering praise and approval and "for me, baby," and he yanks Sam's intestines out and strangles him with them, tells him he's gorgeous just like this. Or...

Or it's all teeth out one by one and a cracked jaw and lips torn at the corners wide, wide, wider, and Lucifer is shoving his fist down his throat. Or...

Or it's his spinal cord squished under Lucifer's shoe because there are no more insides left to grind and mash and flatten against the floor. Or...

Or Lucifer is fingering his cerebrum straight through an empty eye-socket until Sam is laughing like a maniac, because a tiny hidden spot in his frontal lobe is manually triggered and his brain thinks it's hilarious, thinks it's whimsical, couldn't stop weeping like a 3-year-old because it's so fucking funny and he's forgotten how to breathe.

And it's this or this or that and Lucifer always found his way in, always in his veins and in his bone marrow and right beneath his skin. In his head rummaging through memories and feelings and thoughts and the dirty and the vulgar and the taboo and all the skeletons Sam was not allowed to hold hostage anymore.

_Tell me about your brother, your father, your childhood, every girl you've ever loved. Tell me a story, a fantasy, a secret, a fetish. Tell me how you fucked Jessica. Show me. Perform for me. Finger yourself. Tongue on the floor. Lick. Clean. Pray._

And in his soul... loving him like nothing else mattered, like it was them against the world, like they were gods and they were invincible and they were timeless and inside each other was exactly where they belonged.

_Look how beautifully you survive, how radiant when you suffer, how sturdy and strong and brilliant and love you, love you, love you._

Sam remembers sheer want, and drunken need, and phantoms of so close and featherlight and vulnerability and acceptance and pure unadulterated euphoria.

Sam remembers a unison glorious and whole and so very complete ringing truer than true.

And Sam remembers the constant connate ache for a taste of _holy and divine and eternal_ that had been once satiated and now... now it screams deprivation and wants to beg for the scrappiest of scraps.

What do you remember? Sam remembers too much.

Full to bursting with aftertastes and afterimages and aftershocks of every single violation he came to plead for and crave, desperate and suicidal and self-destructive in all the ways he needed to drown and shrink and disappear in the shadows of distorted deformed models of false victories and makeshift contentment and momentary peace.

Every aborted panic attack always right below the surface except Sam was not allowed fear until he was allowed fear and, until then, he smiled so broad and wide and almost believed it, repressed and suppressed twitches and tremors and instincts, riled up emotions and convictions buried far and deep because they offended _him_ , because they were pathetic and disappointing and boring and the Devil was ten times worse bored and Sam knew it.

And lurking behind a hundred layers of vicious and brutal and the methodical undoing of every defense mechanism, every shield and every safety net and every exit door and every distraction and every comfort that wasn't Lucifer and only Lucifer, there was the tenderness, the empathy. A sneaking creeping crippling thing, sharp and sickly and parasitic, shrieking accusations and half-truths and preaching oneness, togetherness, love and understanding and forgiveness, and all the gifts still unwrapped, all the debts still unpaid, _and weren't you the real monster, Sam?_

Because you were made for each other and you abandoned him too.

The memories, too much, too many, linger and fester and metastasize, like a tumor, like radioactive waste, and they gnaw on Sam, taint him from the inside out. And he can't, can't exorcise them, can't neutralize them, can't rationalize with the irrationality of them.

In lego cities or amidst the stars. On a swim or a hike or a walk. With books or music or conversation. Kissing, fucking, tearing. Power, vision, history, healing. Cruel and intimate and honest and terrible. Cock balls-deep and hands and wings and tongue and tears. All the pain that was his, and all the pain that was _his_. Everything and anything and Sam had promised forevermore.

And he says nothing; stripped of words and language and reason, Sam parts his lips and groans nothing. Just this charred smoldering thing, flew too close to the sun and is still burning, still scrabbling for purchase. Can only stare and shudder and break and crumble with all the abject terror and revulsion his little human heart can bear, and all the awe it can not. Because the Devil is still nodding reassurance, still light and hellfire and ultracold matter and grace, raw nuclear energy freezing and obliterating and penetrating him from feet away. Eyes an ocean of want, a tinge of blood-red curiosity, and just a hint of soft, blue, nostalgia.

"And what... Sam?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was a very short chapter because we thought Sam's headspace deserved a peek (and its own space).
> 
> Your feedback is a gift and it makes our whole week. Thank you so much for reading!


	9. They Did Not Know How to Blush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The vitriol in Sam’s words is almost as potent as the poison he’s directing at himself internally: physically and mentally. But what if there’s no one to turn to for comfort aside the monsters in his head?

Not that hindsight is twenty/twenty because it very much isn't, because Sam is still huddled in the corner, knees to his chest and body rocking back and forth and face branded with each memory as it flashes bright and crude before his eyes, like a mark, like a statement and a question and an accusation and shame, shame, shame and not a single conclusion.

And Lucifer remains patient, keeps his distance, watches with a level of fondness the various shades of distress as they manifest. Entertains himself with a guessing game where he tries to identify a particular memory by the particular twitches it triggers. He doesn't sneak a peek, wouldn't cheat.

It's not like he has anywhere else to be.

"I asked for all of it."

Sam's face is caught between a grimace and a sardonic smile, his voice is too low, too bitter, but he's talking, finally, and it's progress.

"Everything you did to me. I didn’t deserve it and I begged for it. Desperate. I needed you to feel sane. I needed you to feel real. And you wouldn't let me forget the fact, not for a second."

Lucifer leans forward just a tad, elbows on his thighs and hands clasped together and he's attentive, listening. Wouldn't miss a word.

"And you'd pretend to be kind, this flimsy conditional kindness that I had to tiptoe around, had to slave for. Even without the torture, I was terrified. I was terrified. I never loved it, or loved you. I was terrified."

Was that the truth? Because the boy looked like he had nothing but bile at the back of his throat and a thousand years worth of bones to pick.

Lucifer blinks once and it used to be warning enough, "Now, Sam, let's not get hurtful."

Sam tries to chuckle. It comes out choked and heavy and breathless, flees the room the second it parts him, "You- _you_ said it yourself before Death showed up. None of it mattered. It was a game. It was entertainment. You fucked me up and you laughed at it. I don’t know why you pretended to love me. Was it amusing? Is it amusing now?”

Out of every instance of cruelty Lucifer was willing to discuss at length and justify, this one, this one almost hurt him to explain. Because he'd been so obvious, so honest, so transparent even when he lied. He huffs something indignant and a little aggressive and lets his shoulders drop, “Amusing? Sometimes. Pretend? No. I knew Death was at the door, Sam. I was vulnerable. I overreacted."

"Vulnerable? I clawed my heart out for you!"

And Sam is still shaking like his very muscles, his bones, every nerve-ending want to snap and scream and know they shouldn't. Still clamps his mouth shut after every failed attempt at a shout like his very tongue knows it better not.

The anger pools and boils in the small space Sam has confined himself to and it's almost heartwarming how much he's trying to swallow it.

Fear is a difficult habit to break.

And Lucifer rewards good behavior out of habit, too.

"I pretended nothing, Sammy. I only ever lied to you about Michael back when, before Castiel. To keep you with me. Because you didn't get to leave so fast. You didn’t get to throw me back there and ditch me. And then Death comes for you and I get a little emotional, sure, I said things I didn't mean, I didn't want to lose you; I was sca-"

Sam snaps. Always a sight to behold when he's more rage than caution. He slams white-knuckled fists against the floor and he's baring his throat like he wouldn't mind the consequences, baring his teeth like he'd welcome the consequences.

"No, no, shut up, shut up! You don't get to pull that shit. No. You were scared? Vulnerable? What, you tore me apart for thousands of years and revelled in it because you were vulnerable? You reduced me into this pathetic mindless thing that needed you to fucking breathe because you wanted to keep me? What, you degraded me and destroyed everything I've ever believed in and broke my fucking heart into a million pieces because you loved me?"

It's endearing. Infuriating. Lucifer wants to fuck him raw.

"When you put it like that-"

“You fucked me up. You knew what you were doing and you fucked me up. God, I can't take a fucking shower without losing my shit because all I can think of when the water gets a little hot is how it was always the nerves you'd heal first when you burnt me. Always. Healed so fast like every other mercy biology offered and you didn't. I can't look in a fucking mirror, I can't touch my own dick, I can’t stand the dark. Nearly had a panic attack when I tried to hide under the covers like a scared child because you ruined that for me, too. I can’t do anythi-"

Lucifer interrupts, irritation and impatience twisting his face and he's sneering like he's got violence seething beneath his skin too, “There’s the entitlement again. And the victimization and the self-pity you like to drown yourself in. You forget that I didn’t make the ‘dark,’ Sam. That I was _in it_ all the while you had your illusions. All the while you had your safe little corners and your sunsets and your oceans and your fucking brother. I didn’t make the dark, Sam. You don’t get to pin that one on me. You jumped right in it, and I owed you nothing. And I still protected you from what I couldn't protect myself from.”

“The box." Sam corrects and his breath hitches, voice losing all volume, "The fucking box."

And for every other memory of senseless pointless torture, for every time he was brutalized and mutilated and driven to the brink of insanity and back while he begged for death and never got it, this, this was the one. The one that when he'd been allowed scant cat naps and half hour long breaks to sleep still haunted him. Still disturbed whatever version of peace he'd earned. Immobilized and folding over onto himself and melting into nothing. No longer a person, not even a thinking entity, just a primal form of awareness existing in a claustrophobic loop of agony and nightmares.

They'd done it nine times until Sam got the right answer and it was no longer 'necessary.' Nine times. And each time Lucifer would be so kind after, sometimes so kind _before_ , would tell him he loved him and still stuff him in and fucking enjoy it.

And Lucifer knew this, has seen the exact same trauma response at the mere mention at least a hundred times before. Because now Sam is shrinking in on himself and he's openly shrieking into his own palm and he's still clawing at his chest with the same frantic urgency he always did when his very heart wanted out, wanted to stop.

Lucifer's brow furrows and he rakes his hand through his hair. Somehow his tone still has this clinical dismissive edge to it, like he can't wait to change the subject, "I need you to calm down and breathe."

“I don't fucking care what you need." Sam spits out and wipes at his face obsessively, his entire body tense and strained and colorless and every word is acid, "I don’t care how I- what you did to me compares to you or your suffering or whatev-"

"It doesn't."

"Screw you. You deserved your punishment. I didn’t.”

Lucifer pulls up and cocks his head to the right quizzically, brows arched and expression incredulous, dangerous, “Now let’s see… I deserve my punishment, for saying ‘no’ to an all powerful being that just wouldn’t accept no for an answer. And you... do the exact same thing: you defy someone stronger than you, someone that had a claim to you. You don’t just defy me, no, you actively imprison me. And my brother. You throw me in the hellhole I’ve spent eons in and eons waiting to leave. You do that, and you don’t deserve your punishment? You don’t get to monopolize trauma, Sam. We either both deserved it or we both didn’t.”

He stalks closer and Sam cowers back.

“I was cruel, Sam. I won’t stand here and deny it or justify it. I _am_ cruel. And you went and locked yourself up with me. You went and took away _everything_ from me. And then you begged for anything I'd offer because, turns out… Hell is too much to bear. I gave you more kindness than you paid for. More than anyone has ever given me.”

Sam closes his eyes and presses his back against the wall, presses every inch of him that he can against the wall and is still too exposed, right in the line of fire and still freezing. His chest rises and falls erratically and he's staring up now and he's trembling, trembling, trembling.

"I- I never deserved kindness, did I? Lucifer, never- never deserved anything you gave me. Never could atone for my original sin." His voice wavers and his throat tightens and terror is ugly and tyrannical and ice and it's crawling up his spine and stripping him bare, "I felt for you. I cried with you. I tried to understand you. I loved you. It never spared me anything. I was never enough."

Lucifer crouches barely a foot away from him, notes the fear and drinks it up and savors it. And then his face softens all too quickly and he sighs something long and heavy and wistful and clicks his tongue.

"I missed you..."

An afterthought. Honest, unapologetic.

“It’s not that you weren’t enough. I’m just… too much. I want too much and I need too much and I ask for too much. You always deserved love, Sam, even when you didn’t deserve mercy.”

Sam shakes his head slowly and sucks on his lower lip, gazes fixedly on the archangel before him and his heart aches, his heart thuds, everything hurts.

"Why are you here, Lucifer?" The question sounds like a plea, "What do you want? Please show me just this tiny bit of respect and drop the- the love facade." He squeezes his eyes shut again, can't bear to look, can't even withstand the proximity, "What do you want, your, huh, your one true vessel? The s-sick broken soul you played like a fiddle and would say 'yes' on a heartbeat? Please just say it. Please. What do you want?"

"I want you to eat."

And Sam sniffles and swallows and brushes matted hair off his forehead and eyes, blinks a couple of times like he couldn't have heard him right, "What?"

"I can practically feel how vacant you are. It’s nagging at me.”

It's neutral, so absolutely neutral and lacking and Sam is digging nails into his palm again, "Leave me the fuck alone."

Lucifer tsks, and he's level and reserved and nothing about him is menacing, nothing is warm either, “The only reason I would leave you right now, is so you’d simmer in your madness and realize just how much you need me. So I can come back a week later when you’re on the verge of dying again and perfectly pliable. But… I won’t leave, Sam. I’m trying to do better. No games."

Sam doesn't say anything because he knows the calm before the storm, knows the tipping point and knows the finality, can recognize the constant timeless being behind the vessel when his patience wanes, when he's done coddling, when he's getting bored.

"A nurse came a while back and left that.” Lucifer points at a tray on the bedside table and tilts his head expectantly.

"I- I can't," Sam croaks and it feels pathetic. Because even if it isn't razorblades or bugs or poison, he still couldn't stomach the sight of it.

Lucifer flicks a finger at the tray and it lifts in the air, floats to their side of the room and lands right in front of them. He picks a fry and chews on it casually, "Eat."

This. All of this is odd. And the level of self-control required to keep it peaceful is astronomical. Lucifer thinks he’s been doing well so far though, congratulates himself on the fact because he does need the motivation. Because this… is not rewarding. Not as rewarding as it can be if he could just bind the boy to a chair and shove a tube down his throat and force-feed him himself. _Touch him between the legs and slice him open just a little, just to watch where the food goes_. He cracks his neck and dismisses the thought. 

Sam stares down at a perfectly innocuous sandwich and his throat locks. He shakes his head and looks away apprehensively, "I don't- you can just, just snap it away, Lucifer. The, uh, 'how vacant I am' if that's bothering you so much."

And then guilt and shame again because Sam sounds like a petulant child to himself and he's already sick to his stomach with disgust, with terror, with how easily, how simply, he'd just asked the Devil for grace again like he always did before. Didn't think, didn't consider his words, just asked the first chance he got.

“No. Unless you want me here every time you’re starving yourself senseless to heal you. Is that what you want? Because I thought you want me to fuck off.”

The aggressive edge to Lucifer's tone rings, to him, entirely justified. He likes to feel needed. He fucking loves it. But Sam spent the last hour of what should have been a more sentimental reunion complaining and condemning and invalidating millenia of what was real and true and also, also justified. And that hurt; it hurt in raw ugly ways.

And the aggression isn't just aggression with Lucifer so close Sam can barely breathe. He still flinches and shifts back and almost apologizes on reflex before snapping his mouth shut and glaring down at his plate again.

“Do you need me to force you? I don’t understand. Why are you being stubborn when it’s for your own good?”

Lucifer asks with genuine confusion. It’s all over his face and he doesn’t attempt to guise it. All of this is new to him and he’s not quite sure why it has to be so fucking hard. Or how he’s supposed to ‘help’ when he can’t ‘enforce’ his help. Because the only dynamic he knows and understands, even without the sadistic games that are entirely not part of the program and are just for his entertainment, is reward and punishment and obedience and fear. It’s lessons taught and discipline meant for improvement and Heaven’s all righteous Will that must be actualized no questions asked. It’s not evil or cruel or manipulative. It’s good. It’s what Michael would do. And Lucifer is really trying here, but his patience is wearing so thin and he’s holding on by a thread. 

Sam is actually surprised at the leniency. It's almost a little funny how utterly normal it would have been if Lucifer just slammed him against the wall and shattered a bone or two. How bizarre it is that Lucifer hasn't even touched him yet. The implicit threat tucked in Lucifer's question is unfamiliar in how uncertain it is. It's funny, funny; for some reason, Sam's laughing and his shoulders are shaking with it.

“They’re going to force me to eat in a few days anyways. And if anyone is going to force me I don’t think I want it to be you.” He murmurs through a string of hoarse chuckles and tastes tears at the corners of his lips, again, "Because I know I'll scream and that’d get an attendant in here, and I’d have to say ‘oh, no, sir, it wasn’t a hallucination. This time Satan was _real_.'”

Lucifer's lips curl into a small lopsided smile and Sam just keeps going. It sounds like an inside joke. His entire life sounds like an inside joke, "And that means more drugs and the hallucinations getting worse and thank you, but no thank you."

“You’re afraid of drugs and… hospital attendants?" Lucifer croons, his smile a grin now, warm, amused, "Sammy, baby. Tell whomever the fuck you want it’s really ‘Satan’ this time and if someone touches a hair on your head, I’ll smite the entire building and then take you out for dinner."

The casual reference to this kind of violence is stunning and Sam is suddenly too restless and too burdened and a hundred alarm systems are blaring loud and brutal in his head.

He's been so absorbed in his own misery, in his own history, he hasn't even...

He pushes himself to his feet and paces to the other side of the room, hands clasped over his head and lower lip drawn between his teeth and _gotta tell Dean, gotta find a way, gotta make him stop._

Lucifer shifts and looks up at him, picks another fry and twirls it between two fingers, before placing it down and licking the grease off his fingertips, "Ah. So we're on to that portion of the night." He chews on a distant hint of disappointment and considers smiting the hospital out of spite alone, "Tell you what, champ, we're gonna get you fed and healthy first and then I'll let you worry about saving the world to your heart's content, yeah?"

Sam hears the woosh of wings and, in an instant, Lucifer is two inches away from him. He doesn’t touch him, he just forces him into a corner, too close it’s a heave of his chest and they’d be pressed flat against each other. And Lucifer’s voice is an ageless imposing thing that invites no argument. There are no threats there, just finality. 

“Eat. And then throw up if you need to. And then I’ll heal you. Now.”

Sam could practically see the edge Lucifer was teetering so precariously on. And he doesn't deny him, doesn't provoke him, doesn't even breathe too loud, just nods wordlessly, clasping his hands tight together in front of himself and then bunching them up in the hem of his shirt. His gaze travels to the tray on the floor and then back up to Lucifer, placating, asking silent permission to move.

“Yes. Go.”

Lucifer pulls back slightly, just a bit to allow Sam space to move while still close enough that some skin contact is unavoidable. And Sam hesitates for a second before pushing past him, flinching visibly at the brief touch of cold and the whiff of _glorious, union, need_ all too close and never close enough and Sam wants to run for his life and he wants to kneel and beg and weep.

He nearly collapses back in the corner, his nerves firing up and his hands shaking again and he picks up the sandwich, squishes the bread down flat and mayonnaise leaks out of the bottom to splat down on the tray. He closes his eyes.

He doesn't chew. Just bites and swallows and forces it all down as fast as humanly possible. It's almost vengeful, almost like he wants it to hurt. All too aware of watchful eyes and the fact this too isn't a choice and the rising panic that this is not the cage. Not the cage. Not the cage where they were safe. And the world was safe, too.

“It’s okay. You’re doing so well. Not so bad, is it? If you need to throw up, it’s fine. Your body will still retain most of it. Baby steps.”

Might have been the food, might have been the hallucinations, or the stress or the strain or the fear or the need or the all-encompassing disgust. Whatever it is, it clings thick and bitter and saliva can't wash it down. And Sam's hand snaps up to claw at his throat and the other down to clutch at his stomach and he doubles over and retches violently, empties himself all over his chest and the floor, whatever little sustenance he managed to consume and didn't even digest, and bile, and blood.

And he's whimpering and panting and wrapping his arms around his middle, hugging his knees tighter to his chest. Doesn't have the energy or the heart to move himself, just curling up so small he might just disappear.

Lucifer hums a low pleased noise, a muscle below his cheekbone twitches.

Sam always suffers so beautifully, radiates with it, like a star imploding. Hot and fierce and absolutely mesmerizing.

He inches towards the boy slowly, snaps his fingers to clean the mess off of him and the floor. And he kneels right next to him, soft, fond, predatory.

“Can I touch you? I’ll take away the pain.”

Sam buries his face in the floor and groans what was familiar, what was normal, what came naturally, "Please, please, I’m sorry."

“You’re forgiven. I don’t believe you’re apologizing for what you should be apologizing for, but I forgive you anyway.”

And Lucifer thinks he means it. Because now that he’s out of the cage, it’s in the past and he’s willing to put it all behind him. Fresh start and all that jazz. He’s trying, really trying. 

He slides a hand past Sam’s folded arms and rests it on his stomach. And light floods forward. Grace such a malleable tool, like a part of him that remained a part of him even as it left him. Intentional and meticulous, and acts on will alone. He could take all the pain away, he could take some of it, he could move it elsewhere, enhance it, purify it, play with it. He could do anything and the power is always so fucking tempting. He doesn’t abuse it, not today. And the pain is gone. Digestive system slowly restores itself. 

“Would it make a difference if I apologize too, Sam?”

Sam barely hears him, waves of cold contentment coursing through his veins and clouding his eyes with tears. The instant relief, his stomach finally no longer digesting itself, is nothing. He doesn't care. But his soul is starved and it feels like home and it _wants_ and it's so, so good, so beautiful, he missed it so much. He stares up blearily at light and divinity and nightmares, tries to swallow down the praise racing up his throat and clambering out to sing.

He only whispers "Maybe," and he pats himself on the back for the effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for any and all forms of feedback. And thank you so much for reading!


	10. For by Your Words You Will Be Justified

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honest is not a synonym for good. And clarity doesn't always come with salvation. Sam has a bit of both.

“I’m sorry, for the box. I wanted to drive a point home and there were a hundred kinder ways to do it. And I picked the cruelest. I’m sorry I may have implied that I didn’t truly care for you, that I wasn’t capable of loving you. I was terrified, because I knew you were leaving and I don’t… I don’t handle abandonment well. I’m sorry you never felt enough. It’s not your fault. I have a gaping hole the size of a planet that would never fill anyway. You colored my darkness and you kept me grounded. That should have been enough. I should have focused on that more. I’m trying…” 

And Lucifer's fingers curl and uncurl in Sam's hair because he's close enough now and he _can_ , and Sam won't say no because Sam is grace-drunk and it feels like a paradise lost and honesty is a double-edged sword. Always has been.

Sam reminds himself that Lucifer can take the truth and weaponize it. That Lucifer's apology is more in-hindsight should-have-done rather than genuine remorse. Tries to steel himself against the tenderness because it was the tenderness that was his downfall.

Not the torture. Not the terror. Not the isolation. The tenderness.

For all the choices that weren't choices in the cage, Sam thinks he can afford himself a measure of clemency to not self-flagellate. It's the decadence he can't forgive. How much he allowed himself to forget, how much he allowed himself to drown. Every moment he said he loved it, loved him, and meant it.

But introspection is a tainted skewed process trained in cruelty and intent on penance and it never once absolved Sam from blame. And Sam knows he's beyond compromised, knows addiction, knows withdrawals, knows the not-so-old need and the slippery slope and the nudge Lucifer would give and then pretend Sam chose his path and walked it fully informed.

It doesn't matter if Lucifer is honest, or if his honesty comes with an agenda. He's offering acknowledgment, consolation, not an apology, and the vulnerability is as strategic as it has always been.

Lucifer played Sam's empathy as much as he played his fear. Sam tries to cling to that knowledge when the proximity proves too inviting and his body begs him to draw closer.

He looks up, eyes half-lidded and lips dry and parched, and he can see a similar question in Lucifer's eyes that he doesn't deign to hide.

"You're not sure..." Sam scoffs softly, "That you mean it, that you're 'sorry.' Just telling me what I want to hear."

Lucifer doesn't look or sound defensive, crosses his legs beneath him and scratches lightly against Sam's scalp, easing leftovers of a headache that still lingered there, "I'm not big on regret, Sam. But I can objectively recognize that some of what I did was more damaging than I intended it to be."

Sam tries to laugh again but he can't, curls on himself a little further and closes his eyes.

"What are you gonna do, Lucifer?"

"Make amends. Help you."

And there's a hint of playfulness there because Lucifer knows exactly what Sam's asking and is just withholding like he habitually would and Sam is too placated to think of it as anything but normal.

"You said we'll talk about it after I eat." Sam reminds him flatly, pretends it was a bargain and he's owed his due, "I ate."

Lucifer chuckles. It's fond and just a little patronizing and Sam remembers the exact volume and the intonation and how approval would seep into his skin and tug on his heartstrings and pull and twist and  _ joy, joy, joy. _

"I don't have a plan. No higher purpose. First time in eons." And Lucifer's lack of purpose looks like boredom, alarming and menacing and needs to be sated, "Dad must be livid that I’m out. Heaven is a mess, Earth is pre-apocalyptic again and thinking about Hell makes me want to tear a certain demon limb from limb." And he tilts his head suggestively, like that might go on the list but he can't quite bother at the moment, "What do you think I should do, Sammy?"

"I think you should just fuck off into oblivion, but I’m biased.”

And then Lucifer is laughing, and Sam is laughing too because he can't believe he just said that and didn't lose his tongue for it. Can't believe he's not pinned against the wall with hands and wings and grace and light and being skinned alive with nails and teeth and fire for the insolence alone.

Something catches at the back of Sam's throat and his chest is suddenly heaving, and he's hyperventilating because the cold hand still in his hair feels stuck there, glued there, like it has nowhere else to go and no one else to claim and it's crushing him under the weight of a hundred thousand years of this being familiar, being expected, being craved, and Sam feels marked and bruised and trapped and he's fighting a compulsive urge to beg forgiveness for demanding a version of himself the Devil doesn't own.

But Sam can't pull away. He physically cannot make himself move. And he's clutching at Lucifer's arm like he's not sure if he wants to yank it away or drape it around himself and  _ drown. _

And somehow he's still buried ten feet under the meadow and he dug the fucking grave himself and in record time too, and Lucifer is still watching him like his paralyzed decomposing body is somehow beautiful. Like choking on dirt and terror is a skill to master. Like he's done such a good job living through death again. And again and again and again...

"Sam..."

"Sorry sorry sorr-"

"This place is swarming with demons, did you know that?"

Sam stares up and he holds his breath. Knows the exact volume and the intonation and how Lucifer would distract him from an impending panic attack whenever the stars aligned and he was kind enough to do just that.

"Didn't- didn't know."

"No you didn't. Breathe."

Sam breathes.

"I don't want another apocalypse, Sammy. Never wanted the first, remember? Now hold it."

Sam holds it.

"Tell me about the Leviathans."

Sam chews on his lower lip and rummages through very very old archives, "You told me once-"

"Out. What did I tell you? Remind me."

Sam breathes out, "Tribal, several clans."

"Yes and what does that tell you?"

"That- that if more than one clan had left Purgatory they'd have been on each other's throats. Wouldn't bother with us. So one clan, probably one clan."

"Makes sense. What else?"

"Very hierarchical. It's the only way they can organize their chaos and systemize it. Most of them are auto-cannibals, predators, barbaric. No ambition, no purpose. Mercenaries, work for their dinner. You cut the head off, get the board of directors out of the picture, and the rest is a walk in the park."

Lucifer hums and smiles. Looks so fucking proud it hurts.

"There you go, ba-"

"Lucifer, don't."

Sam shifts to face away from him, buries his face in his elbows and breathes, breathes through a hurricane of need. He doesn't want praise, doesn't want kindness, doesn't think he can bear it. He's going to be sick again and he's going to kick and scream and he's going to lose his fucking mind because he's right on the edge and Lucifer likes pushing. Lucifer won't stop pushing.

"I wanna go back to sleep. I want you to leave."

And Sam can't see him, won't look at him, but he can almost feel eyes boring into his back and burning. Can almost smell the frustration and he dully wonders if Lucifer would lose whatever motivation he still has to keep it all in check now. If he'll snap now. If he'll drop the veneer of self-control and rehabilitation and reconciliation and hurt him now. If this is it. Is this it?

Lucifer squeezes his shoulder lightly and leans over him to kiss his temple.

"Okay."

It's freezing. Freezing, freezing, freezing, and Sam can't stop shuddering.

And then it withdraws, and Sam screws his eyes shut and hears footsteps, hears wings fluttering gently, hears them halt by the door.

"You know the hallucinations won't stop, right? That we'll have to drown them out, together?"

Lucifer doesn't say it but there's always the implied 'you need me.' Sam recognizes the codependency because he can now recognize Lucifer's need, too. 

_Look what a great team we make..._

Sam detests the clarity, that he can see it all laid plain now, bare and vulgar and right in his face. The same old patterns and how Lucifer always finds a way in and morphes it into a necessity, a joint purpose, a quest. Them against the world, against the cage, against the madness. And Sam tries to mute an insistent voice that keeps screeching, that reminds him of the first time he knocked the door and asked for the Devil's company because he needed him then and he still needs him now.

Sam is not sure why he's half nodding, if it's for whatever contract that was carved onto his very bones, whatever penance he promised, everything he asked for and in some terrible sense still thinks he deserved. Or, if, in all the ways it's the same over and over again, part of Sam still thinks he could wrap his arms around the fire and be the only one that burns. And if so, if that would be enough, if Sam can twist himself into a purpose, perhaps it's safer for the world if they're together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another relatively short chapter because the next couple of chapters explore the hallucinations in gruesome detail and it's not gonna be very, um, nice. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	11. And by Your Words You Will Be Condemned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the real Lucifer gone for the time being, Sam’s hallucinations are back with a vengeance; now armed with guilt and shame and previously repressed memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: victim-blaming, graphic assault, mild gore.
> 
> This chapter is bleak and heavy and please feel free to skip it if it ever gets a bit too much. There will be a brief summary of the main points in the chapter end-notes in case you choose to. Safe reading! :)

Sam may have waddled to bed at some point, curled himself into a ball and slipped into fretful sleep. Five minutes or an hour or eight, he couldn't tell if asked.

And there's a hand in his hair again and Sam thinks it might be a dream. A lot colder in temperament, a lot less in temperature. His head swims with the effort to will it all away.

“Wakey wakey, Sammy. We’ve got a big day ahead of us."

A voice croons and the hand is a fist now, tight around the roots of his hair and yanking. It's rough, and a statement of sorts, as if this other Lucifer needed to identify himself by contrast.

Sam’s eyes snap open, not fully awake or cognizant yet. His body is pulling on him to go back to sleep, demanding, insistent. Needs compensation for the past two weeks and won't take no for an answer. The words hang in the air like a nightmare, heavy and nonsensical. And Sam tries to piece the sounds together to form a sentence, and then he tries to dismiss them on principle.

_Not real. Just your crazy acting up again._

“Come on. You were engaging with me just fine two hours ago, werent’cha?”

Sam tries to gauge the time, his gaze weary and unfocused and skipping past the figure hovering over him to the window in a half-hearted pursuit of sunlight. But the glass is dimmed and he can't tell. Was the glass always dimmed? He can't remember.

“Getting nice and cozy too. And just a few hours before that you were harping on me for raping you."

Lucifer shifts up beside him and straddles him-

 _not Lucifer, not real, just you and your insanity and your guilt and your trauma and not real, not real_...

-and the weight is solid and unyielding, and his thighs are bracketing Sam's middle and he makes himself comfortable pushing himself down on Sam's crotch.

"Did I ever? Now that you recall?"

Sam jerks back violently as if touched by electricity and his blood is still pulsating with it.

“Did you ever say no to me, Sammy? Let’s think back, hm?”

He thrashes and kicks and puts commendable effort into every punch that never really lands only because his instinct is to stay very very still and he's actively going against it to prove a point.

It's useless. Comical. Too little, too late. Lucifer rolls his eyes and looks down at him like they both know better.

But, rationally, he knows. This is a confrontation with himself he's not in the slightest bit ready for. Maybe never will be. But Lucifer, or Lucifer’s face or voice or image or mannerism, are infinitely harder to dismiss than any version of Sam his brain would conjure to crucify him for his sins some more. Something about this stings so much Sam’s eyes burn with it. 

He won’t indulge this. He won’t go down this rabbit hole. He won't fight windmills. He shakes his head and says nothing, does nothing, practices dissociation like one should when one must.

The hallucination is aggressive today. Vengeful. Unforgiving. Got an axe to grind. And Lucifer, real or otherwise, doesn't like to be ignored.

"Alright, Sam. If you don’t start engaging,” He fists his hand in Sam’s hair and yanks him up into a sitting position. “This room is gonna get real small, real dark, real fast. Do we want that?” 

Sam blinks. And then Sam stares.

And Lucifer shifts his grip down to Sam’s chin, forces him to shake his head ‘no,’ “Right, we do not want that. Good boy."

Sam despises this version of Lucifer for what it is, but more so for what it isn't, for how much it's lacking, for how distinctively it doesn't compare. He's almost grateful his deranged frayed psyche, hell-bent on killing him as it is, couldn't conjure anything close to the source material. Because he's looking at him now and all he feels is hate.

And fear.

But Sam can digest hate and fear, can even accept them in a sense, bathe himself in tar and rage and resignation and the self-loathing he thinks he's earned.

It's simpler. Cleaner. Clearer. Easier on his heart than light and splendor and a thousand shining stars.

“Now when humans talk about this kinda stuff you hear a lot of things about the poor, mm, victim ‘asking for it’. You know that’s a load of crap, don’t you Sammy? But not for you.”

Sam knows where this is going and know what this is. A trial and a verdict and a life-sentence.

“No, no, you’re so disgusting, so desperate- ‘torture me instead’. That’s what you told me. Told us. ‘Please afford me this courtesy.’" Lucifer sneers and he looks genuinely sickened, "What did you tell me, Sammy? What did you tell me when you offered yourself up and I told you I'm more than likely to abuse it?"

Sam's lower lip quivers and he answers the question on autopilot. So small, barely audible, "Knock yourself out."

"'Knock yourself out,' right. You told me to knock myself out. Offered your body up for free use and got paid upfront like a good little whore. Is that what you are, Sam? Tell me."

Sam wants to exist outside his body as a cold indifferent objective viewer that’s not terrified out of his wits of the dark, and the confinement, and his own head closing in on him as he burns alive. Wants to have the certainty, the conviction, the irrefutable recognition that it wasn't his fault, wasn't a choice, that he was backed into a corner and had to acclimate himself to a forever with no other options and no way out. That he was scared, that he survived the only way he knew how, the only way he was allowed to survive.

But those are small mercies he can’t seem to afford himself. 

"I had nothing. I had nothing. I had nothing else to offer."

"Oh don't give me a flimsy bullshit excuse, Sammy. You know what's a lot worse than a whore? A fucking coward who can't own up to his own choices."

And Lucifer is pulling away and jumping out of Sam's lap and he's dragging him off the bed by the hair, "So which are you? Tell me."

And Sam screws his eyes shut and the tears stream down his cheeks and he’s shaking. Or maybe the room is shaking. Or maybe the room is closing in because he’s not being engaging enough, because he can’t answer the question, because he can’t fucking say it. 

“Please, please I was terrified, I was going insane. The dark, huh, I wanted- I wanted a way out. I swear, I wanted-”

And he’s choking on the sobs because everything he’s saying sounds stupid and ridiculous and pathetic to him and he can’t even get himself to believe it.

“That’s the problem with your species, Sam. Always ‘me, me, me.’ ‘I'm gonna be a hero, gonna jump in the hole. Oh, I can’t stand the dark, I miss my brother, I need someone to love me.’”

The mockery is sharp and the words cut and Lucifer is wrapping his fingers around Sam’s throat as the room slowly shrinks and contracts in on itself and Sam can barely stand on his bare feet because the floor beneath him is fire and it's only rising up, up, up.

“One last chance, baby, come on. I just need to hear you tell me what a pathetic little whore you are. I think I want to hear you beg to be my toy again, ‘cause you sounded so pretty the first time.”

Lucifer smirks, drags Sam forwards a little so their foreheads are pressed together, so they are at eye level, so Sam can see nothing else, can feel nothing else as reality warps itself at his bidding, “Say it.”

And Sam’s chest tightens as the room does, as the words land, as the irrational terror grips on him and stays. He shakes his head, lips parted and sucking on air that feels too hot and too acidic and burns with each inhale. He always wanted to be stronger, to endure, to take it, but it hurts, it hurts so much and his vision is blurring and he’s not strong enough; he’s never been strong enough, not with Lucifer, not with Ruby, not with anyone who pressed his buttons and played him like a fucking fool.

And if the darkness wasn’t closing in, if he didn’t feel the phantom pain of every bone being crushed and ground to dust, if he didn’t still hear himself suffocating on his own screams, begging begging begging, always begging. He did nothing but beg. 

“Please I’m a whore! I’m a whore- don’t don’t- Please!” 

Lucifer is grinning like a maniac and clapping his hands together, all so merry, "Once more, with feeling!"

The heat is obliterating, excruciating, and Sam can practically hear the fires roaring around them. So tight he can feel his torn ligaments and dislocated bones, his broken spine, all crushed in together.

And Lucifer's smile is impossibly wide, looks so wrong it's horrifying. And Sam is clawing on his arms, nails digging in skin that feels so real, so cold, did the exact same thing a thousand times before and here we go again. And he’s wailing and sniffling and kicking his feet against the floor with frantic hysteria because he’s burning and his skin is falling off and there’s a shooting piercing pain right in the middle of his spine and it’s taking over everything. He can’t run, there’s never anywhere to run, there’s never a point of delaying the inevitable. He always fails. Always gives in. It’s always the same.

It's nothing new. Sam knows pain all too well. Knows the tyranny of it, the all-consuming nature of an inflammation that leaves no room for anything but the mindless need to make it stop.

"I'm a whore- Lucifer, I'm your whore, ple-please please, asked for everything, hn- asked for all, all of it, please, everything, huh, anything, I'll do any-anything."

“Anything?” Lucifer parrots, guiding Sam down to the floor and thumbing at his lower lip, "I’m liking this new game. And you know I wouldn’t say anything he wouldn’t say, right?” He asks softly, “No matter how deep in your own pathetic little head you get, this is still me. He’s lying to you, Sammy. You know it, I know it, he knows it. So why don’t you do…’anything,’ and I’ll tell you all about it. Sound fun?”

And Sam is trying to swallow but it’s just molten metal pouring down his throat, searing hot and flaying him from the inside out. And there’s no room anymore. He’s the room, he’s the fire and the darkness and the walls closing in, crushing himself in. And there’s nothing but Lucifer, and the heap of what Sam is, no bones or structure or dignity to keep himself up, to rationalize, to think, to be anything but the trapped terrified animal scratching with blind desperation at the only exit there is.

He lurches forward and grabs on Lucifer’s waist, shoving his face between his legs, eyes wide and insane with the agony, fixed up pleadingly and blinking rapidly, “Please- lemme please…” He slips two fingers past the waistband of Lucifer’s jeans, and tugs on it, hand shaking with urgency and determination and too mindless to fumble with buttons and zippers.

“Will be so good-- so good for you, any-anything for you. Be your toy, be your whore, please mercy… want your cock, Lucifer, please please.” 

And he’s lapping on tight denim, open-mouthed kisses and pleas and licking like he’s starving and getting it all wet and warm and hard, because if Lucifer is using his throat then maybe it’ll stop melting, and if he’s messy and needy enough then maybe Lucifer will believe how so utterly sorry he is and will give him another chance and will heal just a bit of the pain so Sam can do better and worship better and never ever disappoint him again.

Lucifer grabs the back of Sam’s head like a vice and the contrast of the cold of his touch to the heat was almost worse than the pain already there, because if Sam’s skin wasn’t already melting it felt like it would just slough off if Lucifer ever lifted his hand.

He forces Sam’s head down, forces his mouth over his cock and the sensation is brutal. Because every in and out motion, aggressive and relentless, is ripping at his flesh, and Sam can taste his own blood.

“Mercy.” Lucifer muses. “You just had mercy, didn’t you? Unless he doesn’t come back today.” He smiles with this utterly false camaraderie, “I mean- last time Death was around he ignored you completely. Do you really think he’d ever come back?”

Sam stares up wildly.

Lucifer tilts his head to the side and grins; an empty thing that doesn't reach his eyes, never does. “Oh, you poor thing. You thought he was being nice to you out of... what, the goodness of his heart? Oh, Sam, that’s so precious. So innocent. And I thought we’d beaten that out of you by now. No, you remember now, don’t you? Death? Conditional release? He's playing nice because he has to. Biding his time pulling your strings because you're just so adorable with your little self-respect charade, baby. Well, hm, until parole is over and he can have his fun again, and wouldn't you love that, Sammy?"

Sam just screams around his cock and keeps taking it

And his madness is a living breathing thing. An infection spreading all over his body and becoming him, a monster out for murder, ripping him apart in all the ways a human can be torn and mangled and burnt on the stake as the mobs cheer and holler for more. 

Because one minute _that_ was Lucifer. Real and brutal and relentless. And Sam was in the cage, and he didn’t deserve mercy because he almost never did. Because suffering was his right of passage and he had so much to atone for, so much to learn and prove and become. And when it wasn’t that, it was fun. And fun had nothing to do with Sam, fun wasn’t about Sam, or his growth or his lessons or an arbitrary greater good he couldn’t see try as he might. Fun was a game he didn’t know the rules of and never knew how to stop playing. And he should just endure, and entertain, and be a perfect pliable thing that morphes itself into whatever shape and form Lucifer wants to see at the moment. He owed him that. He signed up for that. 

And the next minute, the next minute the memory of another Lucifer is so fresh and vivid in his head it guts him. Because he wanted to “help,” wanted to “heal,” and he was “trying.” And Sam is so fucking pathetic because part of him wants to believe him, because part of him fucking misses him, because he hates himself more than he hates him and he needs saving, again, from his own mind. He can’t fucking breathe. 

He was so close to death, it was a relief to see it coming. And Lucifer had to come and take that away from him. Because Sam doesn’t deserve mercy, not yet. Doesn’t deserve rest. Should just stay right here in his custom-made Hell because this is a life sentence and he should have never gotten out. 

The tragedy will always be that Sam knew exactly what the locked door offered and he still knocked, every time. The tragedy will always be that every fucking minute of his godforsaken existence is a trap, and whether it's set by Lucifer or a crueller worse god, Lucifer always manages to extend a hand, with an agenda or without, with love or without, with truth or lies or light or damnation. He always extends a hand and promises salvation.

And Sam prays. To the real Devil. It's instinctive and barely cognizant, thoughtless. Just a faint built-in awareness of the only entity in an empty universe that would still listen. And he keeps his eyes on the hallucination throughout, still pleading, still so well-trained he doesn’t once look away. And he’s convulsing and shuddering and the world is spinning and he won’t stop burning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief summary:
> 
> Hallucifer wants Sam to admit that he asked for it, both the torture and the sexual abuse. Uses memories from the cage against him, and then Sam's trapped in a very painful memory that completely compromises him and he tells the hallucinations what they want to hear. Sam has a lot of guilt and self-loathing and he's not having a great time. He ends up "asking for it" to make it stop, and he prays to the real Lucifer for help in a moment of delirium and desperation. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	12. The Free Gift of God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean can’t bear the fact that he can’t save his baby brother this time around. Death is fishing for learning opportunities for the fallen archangel he’s trying to rehabilitate. Sam and Lucifer do more than talking, and honesty is still a minefield they don't know how to tread.

Dean doesn't like problems he can't fix with a gun. Or a blade, or a sword. Or red-hot rage and brute force. Dean doesn't like enemies he can't stare straight in the eyes and despise, dig through his old boxes of bottled down hate and see the embodiment of it in flesh, weaponize years and years of righteous fury and crush those who deserve to be crushed. Dean wants the outlet and the small victory, the knowledge that both can walk hand in hand and he can sleep better at night knowing he'd done his job today too. Hunted things, saved people, kept Sammy safe.

Except it's been nothing but one loss after the other since Hell. Since he's seen the true face of evil and became it, and winning had been feeling less and less like the ultimate end-goal and more and more like a consolation prize in a never-ending survival game.

Dean is tired. Dean is defeated. Dean has a twisted twined boiling thing in his guts that reeks of terror and misplaced anger and grief and helplessness and he can't lose Sam too.

After Cas. After Bobby.

When the world on the brink of another apocalypse is nothing but a nondescript mass of faceless strangers he can't summon the energy to care for, or find a reason to martyr himself for their cause.

But fuck the world and the saving it might not deserve. This is personal. Hits too close and too deep and Dean needs a reason to wake up in the morning. The one person that always gave his life, and every quest along the way, purpose and substance and meaning. He can't lose Sam too.

And if taking his little brother and making him a cornerstone of his identity, or an incentive to keep fighting, or an object of selfish dependent love that Dean wouldn't know how to apologize for, Dean thinks he'd allow himself this one for every sacrifice they offered freely and asked for nothing in return. Because giving up on Sam is giving up on himself, and there was never anything else that mattered more, and this godforsaken planet might as well burn if it can't keep Sammy safe and alive for him.

"He's... well. Physiologically, that is. Healthy, very healthy."

Sam's doctor is beyond feigning an understanding for whatever the hell is going on, doesn't look like he's had a lick of sleep in the past two days.

"Broken ribs good as new. Lacerations gone. He is well-nourished, his system recovering, he slept. Mentally, on the other hand, um-"

Dean blinks and presses his lips, brows squished together and hands clasped in his lap, anxiously fiddling with each other. He won't make the obvious conclusion because it doesn't track (because who?); he takes the information and puts it on the back burner.

The doctor rubs his forehead and leans forward, his shoulders dropping, "The past 24 hours have been challenging. He's not exactly responsive. He's... quiet, functional, I'd say? Until the door opens and a nurse lays a hand on him, then he's erratic, vitals all over the place, heart rate skyrocketing, extreme distress. We've tried sedatives again, inducing a coma, he won't go under. I've told you before, Mr. Smith, never seen anything like it."

There's a strained informality to his entire demeanor, as if drowning his utter preplexion in professionalism has already proven a waste of time.

Dean inhales slowly and cuts to the chase, "Why can't I see him?"

"We'd rather err on the side of caution, not exacerbate his episode. I'd take the good news in stride. He's better. Things are looking up. Just give us a few days. I've been emailing with a consultant in Germany. We're doing our best."

“I just need to see my brother, doc. Don’t need to be in the room. Just... please.”

Whatever hard exterior Dean has managed to keep so far, it's breaking, and suddenly he looks so much older, like he’d seen so much pain and all he needed was this small meaningless win even with a loss hovering like a dagger at its back, "Just stand outside the door. I'll keep my distance."

The doctor takes pity, takes Dean to the locked ward and lets him stare through the door's small window, gives him a minute and gives himself a minute. They say nothing.

Sam is mumbling inaudibly, flat on his back and eyes wide and dull, gaze fixed on a spot in the ceiling and body so very still.

He doesn't look like a ragdoll anymore. Just Sam, just Sam stuck in a bad dream.

_Who healed him?_

"He had visitors?"

Dean's frown is more uncertainty and clawing doubts than temper. He shakes his head and decides to err on the side of caution too, "I wanna take my brother home."

"Sam is not allowed visitors and I cannot in good conscio-"

"Listen, man, I can't 'in good conscience' leave him alone here when I don't have the slightest clue what in the living hell is going on and who did- how that-"

"And I wouldn't claim to know how either-" Not when every research paper with the faintest bit of relevance provided no answers and a long-winded discussion with a colleague led him to corners of the internet where logic and science went to die. _Miracles, miracles, miracles._

"But he's not alone, son. We're keeping him safe, running every scan we can think of. We’ll figure it out. I’ll give you a call as soon as there’s development. I promise you that."

Dean wavers because he has his own calls to make, his own trails to chase, an entirely different set of questions to answer. And whatever divine intervention that's keeping Sam alive when his system should have been collapsing by now, well, maybe it's to buy Dean time.

Dean is not gonna leave a stone unturned.

\----

Death’s realm doesn't exactly have the best reception for prayers. Why would it? No one prays to Death. For death, sure, happens all the time, but it's very rare when there's an actual prayer to Death or Azrael or whatever they see fit to call him.

When they go through, the prayers are fuzzy and distorted, and Death almost never answers anyway.

Death walks into his office with a soft drink in hand and a thick book in the other, and Lucifer is already standing in the middle of the room, staring blankly at a wall and looking slightly irritated.

The entity's been out on 'business,' mentioned a 'quick' trip to his library and disappeared there for the better part of a day. Lucifer bites down the expectation of an apology he knows he's not going to get.

"We haven't talked yet. Well, how did it go?"

Death lays the book aside and takes a seat, motions to the visibly impatient archangel to sit down too.

And Lucifer shrugs lightly, keeping his vessel on because it does so tether him to Earth, even with Earth so far away and out of reach. Plus, it wouldn't degrade here. Everything here exists in stasis.

"Good. I think. Difficult. Stubborn. Missed him. Wanted to hurt him.”

“And you didn’t. Good.” Death takes a sip of his drink and doubles down on the positive reinforcement, “I wouldn’t call it admirable, but it’s good. Do you think he can be helped?”

“It’s worse than I thought. Impeccable really. I expected flashes, reruns, echos from the cage. But the hallucination is adaptable, flexible, resilient, creative. It’s me on my worst day without emotional investment or calculation, constantly, no breaks. I’m almost jealous.”

Lucifer still paces, the confinement in this dimension catching up with him and he's been restless for hours now, "I'm doubting its nature, Death. I see parts of me so vividly, and I see Sam's guilt, the convictions I directly and indirectly drilled into him. Of course he can be helped. I just need him to trust me."

He pauses, presses his thumb to his lower lip, and the transparency is a genuine honest effort, but it's also the only strategy there is, "This sounds self-serving. I know."

Death agrees without words. Lucifer doesn't justify further.

"You think it's more than just psychosis?"

"I think I need more time with him."

Death nods placidly, "I'll ferry you to Earth, Lucifer. You seem quite anxious to get to that part already, hm?"

It's not pandering, doesn't sound like such. Lucifer still feels the need to explain himself, "Think I heard him pray. Not sure. It was distant. And I _know_ what must be happening down there right now. I know because it’s what I would be doing. So much to play with."

"Ah, you may have. It's not easy to hear here, prayers." Death's gaze flickers up to Lucifer, and he asks slowly, curiously, "How does it feel to stand at odds with another version of you?"

"Interesting. Competitive. Like a confrontation."

"I think a confrontation will be good for you. Rather than actively inflicting harm, you're forced into an outsider's point of view; a little more objective, don't you think? You may vicariously enjoy what you see, but I'm hoping you'll also experience empathy.”

If this is the desired outcome of Death's rehabilitate-the-Devil project, Lucifer thinks he can play along. He doesn't argue, pursing his lips half-convinced because any more enthusiasm wouldn't exactly be plausible.

"Shall we?"

\----

Sam's room is locked, this time. Lucifer scans the hallway outside it and decides on impulse that he'd rather no interruptions today, snapping the entire night-shift staff asleep. And then he's swinging the door open a little too hastily.

Sam is still on the bed, barely a twitch to his lips, or an involuntary jerk to his legs. Nothing particularly alarming outwardly. Lucifer looks deeper.

The setting is familiar: fire and heat waves and melting walls. The pleas are familiar, gasped out approximations of words Lucifer has heard enough times in enough forms to recognize by intonation alone. The damage, well... Lucifer knew when to stop. This has been going on for too long.

He shuts the door behind him quietly. And for half a minute there, he stands motionless, watching. His other self went for the jugular. Sure. He’d have done the same. Made him beg for it. Complained about ‘rape’ too much he almost set the trap out for himself and jumped right into it. It would be almost funny if it weren't absolutely infuriating.

Not-Lucifer falters mid a manic laugh and its head swivels to look back at the door, “Gotta pop in right when it gets fun, huh?”

It's an ugly violent thing, all sneers and chaos and destruction. Lucifer presses his lips because this is him and also not, a face of his he likes to think he'd risen above, buried in the past or kept on a leash and only let out in small controlled portions. And here it is standing before his eyes, something foreign and separate and self-sufficient that he can't control. And it has its hands all over Sam, and he is inside Sam, and he is ruining him so fucking pretty. Lucifer feels it burn.

He can snap him away. But he doesn’t. Instead he just walks towards the bed and sits on the edge of it. Eyes dart to his doppelganger, cold fire and bright red, “You’re done here. Would you like to talk or off you go?” 

And as he speaks, he presses a firm hand to Sam’s lower abdomen. Skin hot and drenched in sweat, burning. He absorbs some of the pain, for a taste. He savors it, he relieves it. 

The hallucination's upper lip curls up in distaste and it pulls out, wiping its hands on its pants. “Don’t feel much like talking.” And then it's, poof, gone.

Sam slumps down onto the bed, arching deliriously into the source of distant grace and clawing at his burnt and rent flesh, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, thank you- rest, rest, please, I can't-"

Lucifer watches him with this stale expression that is neither sympathy nor disregard. He pulls out the memory of the past day and studies it, and the temperature of the room drops. He smoothes a finger-pad over trembling skin and speaks softly, “What hurts?”

He can feel what hurts. He knows what hurts. Part of him likes to hear it, the specifics, the details. The other part wants to ground Sam in conversation with the hallucination still so fresh. To investigate.

“E-Everything- please-“ Sam babbles, kicking his legs weakly. He doesn't care if his skin is rubbing and peeling off with every move against the sheets, he can't get himself to stop. “I’m just a-a whore, I see, I know. See it now, I’m sorry.”

Lucifer wants to fuck him. Wants to wrap himself around him and reclaim him. Wants to mark him and own him and pluck his tongue out for the declarations that weren’t made for him, that weren’t for his ears, that feel wrong and offensive and sickening.

“Look at me. What are you apologizing for?”

Sam turns his head to gaze in Lucifer’s general direction, “H-I wassso bad to you yesterday, I’m sorry, I don’t deserve this. Fuck me, hurt me, use me, please, feel so dirty, I’m sorry- m’sorry-“

"Shush..."

Lucifer holds him and says nothing further. Just pulls the small curled thing in and drapes his arms around him, fingers tangling in his hair and burying his anguished face in his chest. He breathes heavily against him, resisting every urge to just _take_ what’s being offered. He lets his grace flow between them, slowly pouring into Sam’s pores and coating phantom pain in cold softness that prevails.

It's a while before Sam stops stirring, before a measure of lucidity finds its way to his eyes and sticks. He still clutches at Lucifer with the same post-torture pliability. When the horror is still so fresh and his body knows to cling on to any offered comfort and relish it, be this model of perfection that might deserve the kindness and maintain it.

"You were never 'just a whore,' Sammy. You were never 'just' anything. Always so much more than you allowed yourself to be. Mine and glorious and forever. Why are you doing this to yourself?"

Lucifer sounds frustrated, personally offended.

And Sam's chest heaves because he's too scared to disappoint, too drained to think. He mumbles something pitiful and senseless, "I'll do better, I'm so sorry, I'll do better."

Lucifer sighs.

"You know what you deserve. We've said it a million times before. What do you deserve, Sam?"

"Knowledge and power," Sam blurts out a rehearsed answer he's so fucking grateful he doesn't need to compose on the spot, "Love and acceptance and free will."

Lucifer hums idly and muses. None of this feels like his fault. Neither the hallucination wearing his face, nor the destructive selective conclusions Sam is drawing out of some messed up one-dimensional perception of self Lucifer believes with all his being he had labored in the cage to foster into something larger than the sum of its parts.

“What has you so wound up with guilt, Sam? I did torture you and I did rape you and I did have you exactly where I wanted, saying exactly what I wanted you to say. I never pretended otherwise when we played, when it was fun and games and for my own amusement. A fraction of our time together, but I digress. If this is what you’re conflicted about. There you have it. There’s the answer.”

Sam stares up and blinks rapidly.

“I can make you scream off the top of your lungs that you killed JFK right now, no? I won't believe it and you won't believe it, because it's not true. Because it's just a little game and you can tell the difference between a game and the truth, Sammy, can't you?"

Sam chokes on a knot in his throat and pulls away slowly, "You think? You think, Lucifer, that if I've been screaming that I killed Kennedy for a thousand years that I won't eventually believe it? You think?"

"You're smarter than this."

"No I'm not, I'm not. Thank you for the vote of confidence but I'm not," Sam sniffles and his voice is still too quiet, so cautious, "You think there was this crystal clear distinction, this, uh- fine line, between the truth and when we- when 'we played.' There wasn't. I can't see it, I don't- I don't know where that line was. I don't know, don't know what was true, don't know what I believe. You think there wasn't a point where I believed literally anything you told me? Because you were my only constant, my only truth, and you know it, Lucifer, don't-"

His voice trails off into a sob, but Sam keeps going, he keeps going, "It was 'knowledge and power and love' and 'you're my prince and my legacy' one second, and- and it was 'do what you're good for' and 'entertain me like the good toy you are' and 'my whore' the very next second. And what- what am I supposed to believe, Lucifer? Tell me, please tell me. Because there's no foundation to anything either of us said. All fruits of a poisonous tree. So tell me the truth because I can't see the fucking line, Lucifer. I can't. I swear, I can't. Was any of it real? Is any of it right?"

"I shared myself with you, Sam. If you still can't tell what was true and what wa-"

And then Sam is inclining his head with this utterly devastated expression on his face. Desperate, wanting, muted. His eyes plead. And Lucifer relents.

"I had expectations, you know? Of you, for us, together? You were supposed to be the one human, the missing piece, me and mine and us and the stuff of fairytales. The gift I was promised and promised you, in return. And I didn't chase you, Sammy. Unlike Michael and his goons with your brother, never terrorized you or tried to force your hand. I wanted you to choose me. And you came to me and made your choice and then it was the cage again. And believe it or not, I thought... I get it, I understand; this kid has balls. You don't know me and we have all the time in the world. Here's my history, here's my story, here's what I am and what you are and what we can be together. And I was going to keep you, and I was going to show you, every facet of me like I'd take every facet of you. I wanted you to see me, I wanted you to need me. I… made you ask for everything. I humiliated you, I systematically broke you, I wanted no pride and no shred of dignity, not with me. I wanted to destroy every stupid little conviction you clung to and stood in our way. Clean slate, build us up anew. Take the blindfold off, take the bandaid off, show you our potential and shove it down your throat if you won't see it for yourself. I wanted you strong, Sam, powerful and able and ruthless and more. I wanted to give you everything. I still wanted the whore and the toy and the adoring slave. I wanted all of it because I enjoyed all of it. You, in every shape and color and everything you can be for me, with me."

Lucifer doesn't pause to breathe, doesn't emote, doesn't blink. There's nothing human about him and, for once, he doesn't play the part.

"I didn’t pretend to care. I cared. Every time I said it, I meant it. Every time I touched your soul, it was real. I didn’t fake it. I didn’t have a reason to. Nothing I did to you conflicted with how I felt. The tenderness I felt- I feel… it’s there. I couldn’t falsify that. And it wasn’t words. You saw me, Sam. My grace, my essence, you saw it and felt it and had it within you and I could never falsify that.”

And Sam's soul aches and his heart thuds and his skin itches and his blood is boiling. And they're still too close, and Sam can feel echoes of Lucifer's feelings like he used to before and it's just raw need seeping into his own and it's hungry. Angry. Starved.

"You ruined me." Sam croaks as if that alone is refutation enough.

"Maybe for everyone else, but not for me. You'll always bounce back for me."

Sam stares at a new tear in Lucifer's old vessel, skin cracking right above his left eyebrow and Sam wants to touch it, wants to brush a finger against it and mend it like every scar from the fall on wings still so fucking beautiful. It's maddening how tender Lucifer's truth is, in all its selfishness, in the hundred different ways it still spells narcissism and possessiveness and terrible, unequivocal disregard for the bare minimum of human autonomy.

Or maybe Sam's conception of 'tender' is fucked all to hell. Because he still loves, or fears, or whatever the fuck it is, conditioned or real, truth or lie, he still feels it. And he's resisting every urge to succumb to the crumbs of bliss and the false reassurances that should never again be enough, that should never justify or excuse or paint the cage in a different light than the glaring red it has always been.

“When you said that you loved me and believed that you meant it, I didn’t believe you. I didn’t want this one to be a lie. I didn’t want it to be survival. I may have fostered your dependency but I didn’t force your… affection? I didn’t want that. I’d have never wanted that. Did I force your affection, Sam?”

"I don't know..."

"I've been in your soul, kiddo; I know you. I love you. I've tasted your pain and your kindness and your fight and your surrender. I love you. I love them all. We're a phoenix, you and me. We'd have burnt together for another eternity and we'd have still risen from the ashes. Like we will, now. Tell me, Sammy. Whatever you think is your truth, I'll take it, tell me. All rage aside, all vendettas aside. Look me in the eyes and tell me it hasn't been real, that you don't love me too."

Sam doesn't say anything. He doesn't know what to say. He just tugs on the collar of Lucifer's shirt and shakes his head pleadingly. His eyes clouds of tears and ancient want and a love that feels like poison and he's suffocating on it.

And then Sam feels the brush of wings and he can’t quite see them, but they fold around him like they did a thousand times before. And Sam is lost in the memory of awe-stricken fingers running through feathers softer than silk near the bases and as sharp as obsidian shards on the primaries. Cold and bright and beautiful and damaged. And Lucifer is whispering against his ear, “I’ll make it better. I want to make it better. I want true and real and clean. I’m so… so fucking tender for you. Missed you, Sammy. Miss you so much it's terrifying.” 

"It hurts. It hurts. My heart hurts."

Lucifer slides down and buries his face in the crook of Sam's neck and he clasps both hands around him and he nuzzles, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry it hurts. I mean it. I'm sorry. Let me fix it."

It's a blanket apology and it shouldn't ring so true. It shouldn't. And Sam should be jerking back but he doesn't.

Ice-cold panic and searing-hot need that are both his and also not keep Sam still until they're not the only factors in a timeless equation. And Lucifer is digging teeth into his own lower lip until skin breaks and grace glows beneath, and Sam's eyes flutter then and he whimpers something choked and incoherent that sounds like 'please' in Enochian and it might as well be music because all Lucifer needed was the hint of an invitation.

He presses a single kiss to Sam's lips and the latter's eyes snap open and whatever sense of utter wrongness that persisted right beneath the surface, it's crushed near instantly under waves of _right, right, perfect, meant to be_. And with that Sam grips at the back of Lucifer's head and he shoves himself closer, pours every emotion he can't put into words into the kiss and he's working his chapped lips like a weapon, like a Trojan horse, like retaliation gift-wrapped in the kind of intimacy that still stings and burns for all the times Sam sought it with blind desperation and was often left wanting.

But Lucifer is so very gentle and if it's not tactical, then it's teasing. And Sam claws at his back with savage abandon, sinks his nails between his shoulder blades where the bases of his wings should be.

It's vengeful, violent. Sam remembers every time he was allowed to touch, and how ritualistic it has always been. Remembers Lucifer's distant melancholy when it had been Gabriel before him, the last to touch them with any semblance of kindness right before the fall, and Sam wants to poke where it hurts, because it still hurts. God, it still hurts so much.

But Lucifer moans and chuckles heartily.

And Lucifer never moans. It drives Sam crazy.

"I wanna rip your fucking heart out."

"Do it. I won't stop you."

And Lucifer is grinning with overwhelmed fondness in the same fashion one would indulge a particularly feisty puppy because it's adorable when it bites and fusses. And he gives Sam a moment, almost as if to actualize the threat if he was so inclined. But Sam's motivation has already evaporated and he's hissing through gritted teeth and Lucifer nods and flips him on his back and is above him, hands cupping his face and grace dripping between his lips and Sam takes it, sucks on it for dear life because this is the Devil and he doesn't know how to fucking hurt him.

Wants to hurt him back. Wants to love him back.

Every touch is still soft, every word is still praise. Lucifer wants to mend and heal and nurture. His skin glows and tingles against Sam's, soul and grace too close, singing for each other. Lucifer wants to love the ugliness of the hours before him out of him.

It is strange because this isn't so different from their usual dynamic. The cruelty followed by kindness. And perhaps it is all the same to Sam. Except the cruelty wasn’t Lucifer’s, and he wasn’t there for it. Except for Lucifer it is just this entirely uncharted territory. And his chest is heaving because it is _beautiful_ and he still wants to consume him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> So just to give you an idea of what to expect: this fic has probably 3 or 4 story arcs. The first one is very heavy on Sam/Lucifer and we probably still have a couple more chapters until we move onto the next. The next arc introduces several new characters and the main plot point. We're very excited to get there, but focusing on post-cage Sam and Lucifer and their relationship and where it goes from there has been a lot of fun too! Hope you're enjoying the pace and will stay along for the ride.
> 
> Also please let us know if you'd rather longer chapters? Editing does take some time but the story is already finished so it's doable. Longer chapters might take longer to post though. 
> 
> (Oh, and the last SPN episode was something and I don't wanna spoil anyone but drop me a line if you wanna talk about it!!)
> 
> Thank you so much for your feedback. It's been amazing and it means a lot. Thank you so much for reading!


	13. But on the Seventh Day You Shall Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer offers versions of peace Sam can only allow himself for a moment.

Lucifer is the stuff of sweet dreams when he wills it. It's not just the grace, or the divinity that trickles off of the tip of his fingers and he knows exactly how to use. It's not the light or the wings or the entity with galaxies and eternities under its belt and a hundred thousand intricacies and faces and colors and stories and songs.

It's not the glory, or the beauty, or the magic.

It's how utterly fucking domestic he can be, too.

How he wields his false humanity like a conductor with a baton, flesh and blood and bones and heartbeat. How he breathes, when he breathes. And how he touches, when he touches. How he holds and keeps and cheriches.

The intimacy. The familiarity. The fondness. Warm smiles and warm embraces and soft delicate fingers tracing lines of old known paths like a treasure map on hallowed skin.

Sam's entire being is an orchestra that plays just for him.

"You can tell me to stop."

Lucifer offers it like a permission and a gift, like those leeways he'd give when earned. And for a split second there Sam doesn't look a gift horse in the mouth and is just buzzing with gratitude.

Because 'stop' isn't a word. 'Stop' is Russian roulette and Sam would usually know better than to hold a loaded gun to his head and chance his arm. Not when he knows the consequences and not when he doesn't even want him to stop, now. Not when it's good and more than good and right and real and bliss and Sam can let himself forget for a moment how more often than not, it just... isn't.

He nods like he understands and appreciates it, fists his fingers in Lucifer's shirt and arches into him and chases a mirage of what could have been. An alternate reality where remembering doesn't hurt. Where his very nerve endings wouldn't recognize the Devil on a cellular level and wear the horror like a badge of honor and venerate the wrath he was bound to rain.

The good times. The kindness. Loving and loved and butterflies.

"When you want me to stop, I'll stop. No appeasing, no enduring: you feel it, you say it. Yes?"

This one is whispered against Sam's ear with teeth on his earlobe and two fingers sinking down to the last knuckle past his parted lips. And on some level of surface lucidity Sam knows exactly what is happening and almost begs him to not sour the stream of mindless peace with a mockery of choice when they both know Lucifer would twist and twine and knot the flesh vibrating beneath him into whatever he wants to hear anyway.

"Uh-huh."

Lucifer is still all open-mouthed kisses and smiles and tenderness and hands reacquainting themselves with old and new territories, sucking bruises into flushed skin and grazing teeth against every bone, trailing familiar lines to familiar corners and Sam's vision zooms in and he's full of him to the brim and it's weight and presence and cold that knocks the air of him, makes his blood sing.

Lucifer would eat him alive if he'd let him.

"Do you want me to stop, Sam?"

"Please-"

"Please?"

"Don't..."

"Too ambiguous. Give me a full sentence."

"I don't want you to stop."

"Gotcha."

All things considered, Sam is starved senseless for anything that isn't pain and heartache. Lowers the bar so much when 'good' is just the absence of bad. But it is what it is and Lucifer knows the need like the back of his vessel's hand, knows how to provide, how to satiate. The instinct to rebuild always as urgent as that to destroy and Lucifer likes to think he relishes it just the same, if not for anyone else, then for Sam.

Lucifer was never cruel when Sam needed kindness to see the light.

It's muddy waters when giving and receiving scream old patterns and new compromises and Sam is still grasping at the straws of who he should and shouldn't be, scrabbling for purchase, for a sense of self and an identity separate and isolated from what the cage made of him, and how it defined him, and anything and everything that still pulls on him, drags him right back into a familiar room and locks the door again.

Lucifer sucks him off like both their lives depend on it. It's not the first time either; though it was only ever a treat for very good behavior. Sam feels waves of a conditioned sense of accomplishment and the approval that comes with it wash over him and tickle his very soul in every way it can tic.

He's so fucking proud of himself it's ridiculous.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you."

But if Lucifer was going to rely on ingrained habits and trained reactions, he wouldn't see the next one coming. Because the second he flips Sam on his front and hooks his arm around his waist and slaps his ass and tugs at the waistband of his pants and murmurs with the remnants of Sam's pleasure still bittersweet on his tongue, "I wanna fuck Hell out of you," Sam is dizzy with blinding nauseating all-consuming terror and...

"Nononono- please no," And Sam is scrambling into hands and knees and lurching forward to crash against the headboard of the bed and then he's wriggling frantically to get away because Lucifer is never not physically imposing and the disappointment in his eyes alone is boring into the back of Sam's neck and pinning him in place to squirm.

Lucifer does pull back and entirely off the bed, though.

It's disappointment first, and then bafflement, and then just a tinge of irritation.

“Should have said ‘stop.’ I’m trying to get the word to stick. How hard is it to follow just that one rule?”

Sam presses back against a raised pillow and hopes the sheets beneath his trembling everything will rise up and strangle him, "I'm sorry, I meant- I don't-"

"Whatever, it's done." Lucifer's jaw ticks and the frustration seeps out of him slowly, leaves nothing behind but a layer of carefully maintained calm.

Sam is still staring at him like Lucifer's going to tear his skin off and the resignation to that outcome that keeps his limbs frozen and curled tight against himself is a prophecy demanding fulfillment and the way he just cowers there _waiting for it_...

Lucifer slumps in the chair opposite the bed and smiles almost sympathetically, "Easy now, buddy. I said I'd stop. I stopped. I won't touch you."

The cold fingerprints lingering on Sam's skin still burn. The fire and the ugliness and the horror from hours before that still burn. The distance now and his cock still wet between his legs and the knee-jerk reaction and the fear sobering him up from whatever temporary bliss he wanted to drown himself in for just a moment of reprieve, those burn three times worse.

"Why didn't you come earlier, Lucifer?"

"When you prayed? Where I am, I could barely hear you."

Sam swallows and bites on the jagged skin around his thumbnail, "With Death?"

Lucifer raises a brow, and then he relaxes again, "Yes."

"Is that why you- you won't...?"

"Won't what, Sam? Hurt you? Hold you down and fuck you anyway? No." Lucifer chews on his upper lip and crosses one leg over the other. Indignation twists his face into something defensive and sorely insulted, "For the record, I never did the latter."

"No you didn't," Sam confirms numbly and averts his eyes, "And the former?"

"Give me some credit here, Sammy. I do want us to kiss and make up, and I'm not putting up with your hot-again cold-again mixed signals bullshit because I 'have to.' I'm honoring my deal with Death as long as it doesn't interfere with what's ultimately your and my business and no one else's."

This is a non-answer and Sam didn't expect any better. Lucifer wouldn't outright say 'I can't hurt you,' because he's too prideful to 'can't' anything and he likes to dangle the fear and the threat over Sam's head like foreplay. He wouldn't say 'I haven't but just you wait,' either. He likes to dangle the peace over Sam's head like a promise just as much. The question itself is entrapment and Lucifer wouldn't bite.

He changes the subject all too quickly, "Speaking of our business, wanna talk about what just happened here, Sam?"

Sam is too mentally drained for anything but honesty. He can't even summon the energy for righteous fury. Just bitterness, just exhaustion.

He scrubs a hand over his face and feels it curl into a fist by his lips and hang there. Feels his stuttered breath and his stuttered words brush against white knuckles as they leave him. He has too many words and they all sting. Wants them all out. Wants all the heaviness and the sharp barbed edges and the toxins out.

"You never fucked me and made it not hurt, Lucifer. It was never not humiliation. It was never not a declaration of ownership. That was a clear distinction right there. You fuck me dry and rough until I bleed and cry when 'we play.' You touch my soul and fill me up with your grace when we 'make love.'"

Lucifer's face pinches, his lips a straight tight line, "And which one did you expect this time around? Because I didn't want to play, Sam."

"You touched me just like you did back- back then. Like I'm this dirty little- this, this toy I was expected to be. Just like you needed to reclaim what is yours."

"Forgive me for getting a little too excite-"

"You don't get 'excited,' Lucifer. Not about this, not about the, the s-sex." Sam pokes at an ancient insecurity that burns red-hot and shameful right through his chest even now, "You never felt anything. You don't enjoy it, you don't feel it. You only fucked me to hurt me. You touched me like... like he did before you came."

Lucifer snaps.

It's so sudden and so bright and so terrible and the sky might as well flare on his behalf because Sam can feel the very air sizzle with it and the room is drowning in the crimson of his eyes.

Sam remembers his face, his true face, when he'd be angry and he's never seen him this angry and the memory alone holds his motor functions hostage, dims his vision at the edges. He shudders, he freezes, his throat locks around primal paralyzing terror and he feels so fucking small and terrified and curling bare and defenceless in the face of an ancient annihilative force that could and would obliterate him in a blink.

"You're comparing _me_ to this raging fucking psychopath?"

"Nnn-no, no!"

_Would be sacrilege, would be heresy. I could never. Brilliant, beautiful, glorious, love you, love you, love you. Nothing ever compares. Please, please, please-_

Sam can't get his knees or his lungs or his vocal cords to cooperate. Lucifer hears every word anyway.

He cocks his head, a shadow of gratification crinkles the corners of his eyes. The ghost of a fleeting small smile is genuine.

"You still pray so pretty. I missed it."

He looks only mildly jealous now. The storm passes. The air settles. Sam is still shivering, still frozen, panic seizing him and becoming him and it's cold and tight and brutal and he'd have been on his knees if he could move at all.

“I find it somewhat frustrating that you’re subconsciously burying yourself in this Hell-bubble where I’m nothing but brutality and you won’t, uh, allow me to give you something good. Because- I just wanted to give you something good, Sammy.”

Conversational, amicable, placid. Lucifer carries himself with such casual ease it's unfathomable because a second ago he was divinity and fire and ice and nuclear fucking energy and now he's 'human' again and he's _somewhat frustrated_.

“Why isn’t your hallucination a more, hmm, accurate depiction of me? Why is it only torture and violation and verbal abuse? Only punishment? I was never that. Why do you believe you deserve this distorted version of me and not... me?”

Sam tries to find his voice. His eyes sting with unshed tears.

"Couldn't conjure anything- anything close. Couldn't match what you are."

Lucifer chuckles, "Flattering, but let's move past stroking my proverbial dick. I want the truth. Talk to me."

"The truth?"

It's a pitiful question. Sam can't purge the million and one flavors of fresh horror out of his shaking quivering voice.

Lucifer reassures him, "Yes. Come on, I can handle it. Hit me with your ugliest truth. You're safe. I won't lift a finger in your direction. I promise."

"I don't know why my brain wants to kill me," Sam treads so, so lightly. Every word slow and measured and shrinking smaller and so much quieter than it should be, "Maybe because for every ounce of love I gave you, Lucifer, I've hated myself a little more. Maybe because you'd leave me alone to simmer in my self-loathing and beg for your affection and believe with all my heart I don't deserve it. Maybe... maybe because I had to shatter myself into a thousand pieces to prove that I love you and even when you believed me, it was still not enough, and you still wanted to watch me suffer. Maybe because you made it so that I had nothing else to offer but my suffering, that enduring for you was my only saving grace. Maybe I'm hurting myself because you're not here to do it and it's the only way I know how to be anymore."

He doesn't cry. The tears won't fall. He claws at his chest absentmindedly and wishes any of the damage residing within would sear itself into his skin again so he can see it. So he knows he's not crazy. So it's not just a visage of Sam Winchester when the mangled thing in his rib cage is less than human and just a pile of oozing wounds praying the next blood sacrifice would please the Devil enough to earn itself a glance of glorious, glorious approval.

"I get it, I get it. It's my fault. I asked for all of it. It’s my fault mom died. That Jess died, that Dean died and went to Hell and he's never going to be the same again, either. The entire apocalypse is my fault. You, you, Lucifer, your scars still break my fucking heart and I hurt you and I hurt them and I hurt myself and the world and it's my fault, my fault."

Lucifer is too stiff and still and not a single emotion breaks the veneer of utter blankness he knows too well how to sustain, "That is the most delusional self-deprecating bullshit I’ve ever heard and I've heard prayers from literal satanists. Listen, Sam…”

He leans forward, elbows rested on his knees, hands gesturing as he speaks, “There was no plane of existence where you could have denied me in the cage. I was relentless. I was meticulous and systematic and I had all the time in the world. You’re human, you suffered and broke and ‘asked for it’ like any human would. There’s no outlasting me, Sam. Not unless I allow it, and to be fucking honest… the mere fact that you still had a spark in your eyes, that you were still capable of intelligent conversation, that I would burn you alive on Tuesday and on Wednesday you’d be reconstructing an entire ecosystem to introduce a new species you made up all by yourself? Sammy… I respected the hell out of you. I did, I do. You're never a victim to me, never the pathetic damaged thing you think you are. Never unworthy of me. Sure, I took my boredom on you more times than either of us can count. You took it, you could take it, you survived it. It wasn’t your fault. You lived. You thrived. You made a little Heaven out of Hell. How can you not see that?”

He shakes his head, huffs a sharp chuckle because this particular part is outrageously ridiculous. “The apocalypse is Dad’s fault. All predetermined. The entire garrison of Heaven wanted it, planned for it before your greatest grandparents were ever born. My children were on you before you were conceived. You expect yourself to stand against that? Your mom is Azazel’s fault, and arguably? Her own. Your college sweetheart? Dean? Azazel and Lilith and me, if you’d like someone who’s not dead to blame.”

And his expression softens, and the emptiness flowers with something tender and fragile and aching, "Your only fault in my book is rejecting us. But even I can be objective enough to admit that was fucking impressive. You had an archangel in your head and you beat him. Are you fucking serious? So you see, Sam, the self-loathing, I don’t understand it. It infuriates me."

"You don't understand it? It infuriates you? Why are you- why, why are you making this about yourself?" Sam stares around the room with frantic urgency, his throat suddenly too dry and he wants water to swallow down the hurt and there's nothing, no one, not a sound outside.

"Where are the nurses? Have you- Lucifer, did you?"

Lucifer waves his hand dismissively, "Sleeping. What do you want?"

"W-water."

Lucifer tosses him a bottle that materialized out of thin air and presses his lips, impatient, "I'm making this about myself. Go on."

Sam drinks his fill and tries, oh, how he tries, to tap into the parts of him that still want the Devil's head on a stick, that still want to retaliate, the fire dwindling too weak now because it's burning him alive to keep it burning.

"I can't fix myself to please you, Lucifer. It's not about you. You can't come here and snap the hallucination away and grant me permission to- to fucking say stop, and think you've done your good deed of the month and then it's, it's 'Boohoo, my fuck toy has trauma, why won't it get over it already?'"

He blinks, sniffles, downs the bottle of water because the blood in his veins still runs hot and thick and heavy and he wants the cold, needs the cold, needs it to fucking breathe, "I- I get it. I get it. Rebounding between ‘fuck me like I deserve’ and ‘please fucking don’t’ is... what, confusing? Everything is confusing. Because when you're not here, my own fucking head is a worse version of the cage. And when you're here, I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I refuse to believe you're not here out of self-interest or self-preservation, because why else would you be? I can see you. Yesterday. Today. So fucking close to losing your patience and I can see it in your eyes and how you work your jaw and just _that_ terrifies the shit out of me. What are you trying to salvage, Lucifer? Love? Why, why, why?”

Lucifer smiles. It's hesitant, unsure, almost wistful, "You wouldn’t understand why or how I love you. I wouldn’t know how to explain it. It would be… so utterly unrelatable to you. Because it’s not human, Sammy, it’s not… ephemeral and conditional and comes with an expiry date. It’s- it’s light, and fate, and my grace twisting itself into a million knots because I could never bear your genuine kindness without crumbling. It’s… this constant starved ache for more and it’s a black hole and it’s possession and you’re mine and it’s infinite. Infinite, Sammy. Because you were made for me. Can you understand that? Not your fault either, by the way, but it is what it is."

He shrugs and purses his lips, as if he can't help it, because he can't help it, "I love you on your knees and I love you standing tall. At any given moment I want to own you. I want your everything. I want you begging and I want you shouting obscenities in my face. I want you glorious and I want you at my feet. I want your company and your desperation and I want to make you happy and powerful and certain and ruling the fucking world by my side.”

Sam clutches at his heart and shakes his head violently and bawls his eyes out.

“And, yes, I’m always on the edge of snapping. Every minute that I’m not getting what I want, I want to _take it._ But I haven’t, have I? Let’s agree that I’m terrible and that… I’m working on it?”

Sam doesn't want it to count, that he's 'trying,' that he's 'working on it.' Doesn't want it to mean anything, doesn't want this desperate screeching need itching in his soul for an actualization of a promise he knows won't be kept.

"I want to be happy. I want to rest, please, I want to rest. I love you. It's killing me. I want simple again, I want simple, I want simple, please."

"I can give you rest, I can give you simple, I can give you happy. You know I can give you any and everything, Sammy."

"No, no, no, you can't. You can't because this is the world outside and it's not the cage anymore and the cage was as domestic as I'll ever get, right? How fucking tragic is that, huh? You can't give me another eternity. You can't give me oblivion. You can't give me relief or blissful ignorance or the security of the bars that kept us safe, kept them safe, and I could rest, and give you everything, and suffer for you, only for you, just us."

Lucifer rises to his feet and licks his lower lip. And for a moment there he looks tired too, looks drained too. Doesn't hide any of the misery and Sam almost appreciates the company.

"Let me help you sleep, Sam. You'll give yourself a seizure. Let me hold you. Please? Can you let me do that?"

Sam digs nails into his own scalp and rocks back and forth and teeters right on the edge of hysteria, "You're wearing me down, you won't stop- you'll never stop. I need you. I hate it, I hate it, it hurts- Yes."

"Okay."

And so Lucifer holds him, and he's the stuff of sweet dreams again. And for an hour before sleep claims Sam, they talk like old lovers, and they kiss long and slow and breathless, and, somehow, they also laugh. And Sam cries on his chest and pretends it's the cage or some alternative reality where he'd earned his peace and should revel in it while it lasts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, sorry for the delay with this one. The chapters heavy with dialogue are the hardest to edit. So that took a little longer than expected. We should be able to post probably a couple more chapters this week. Anyway, How are we all feeling about the upcoming almost-finale? Because no kidding but I just had a bad dream about it today and I had no idea I cared so much (the dream was literally a 20-minute episode and it was baaad). 
> 
> Your feedback still makes our day. Thank you so much for reading!


	14. For My Yoke Is Easy and My Burden Is Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temporary truces and temporary truths.

_"Jump."_

_It still sounds like an invitation._

_Sam stares at his feet and the edge of the cliff and then down below. It's majestic, in a sense, the incredible heights, standing amongst the clouds, rising above it all. And then there's the call of the abyss, this obscure message to self-destruct. He tunes in to it because instinct is still too loud and obnoxious, still thinks it has something to prove. The two grapple like they should. And Sam's toes curl bare and dirty in muted reflexive protests._

_Free-falling is not exactly unpleasant, he thinks. There's a moment of weightlessness you can give in to right past the threshold of self-preservation. It's not physical-- you still pierce through the wind like a fallen star and the pull is relentless-- rather the inevitability of it: one track road, no choices, no detours, no other options. If Sam were to die on impact, it would be clean, free. But Sam stays alive. Disarrayed, disjointed, sullied, very much alive._

_"Please..."_

_He wonders which new assortment of bones he will end up in a heap of this time around too. How long Lucifer will leave him there for the crows before he's back up on the mountaintop and told to jump and do it better, again. Can't seem to get it right no matter how many times it's been on a recursive loop. Falling and crashing and breaking, falling and crashing and breaking. How does one fail a sequence so predetermined? How do you do it better? How do you make it stop?_

_He tried silence, bit out the involuntary screams and any and all associated noises. He tried posture, didn't flail his arms, didn't grasp at straws, leapt as if it were a swimming pool waiting for him on the other end. He tried enthusiasm, made up a ridiculous speech on how much this felt like flying, how much it liberated him, closed it with genuine and lengthy thank yous. Sam tried everything._

_"Please. I'm tired."_

_"Are you, now? I just healed you."_

_This is a deliberate misinterpretation; Lucifer likes those for all the ways they dig farther than a direct question would, trap you in a corner and enforce a dismantling. Sam taps the side of his head, presses the same trembling fingers knuckles first to his chest, "Tired..."_

_"Ahh, what do you need, Sam?"_

_"Rest," He mumbles, and then he decides that's not actually what he needs. He's been burning up too hot, like a furnace all but eating up on itself. His skin itches, his muscles short on purpose. Can still see himself in scattered pieces, rotting on a bed of rocks too sharp to swallow him whole. The earth doesn't want him, keeps spitting him back up for Lucifer to collect. It's a game of table tennis and he's the ball. He wants to stop bouncing. He wants to be held._

_Sam needs a security blanket._

_"I need- I need you to keep me."_

\----

Sam is held and kept and safe and his soul almost purrs. 

Lucifer wraps himself around him so very close, tight like a fishing net, like an octopus throwing its web, like a snake and a trap and Sam can't find his limbs. He doesn't fight the familiar oppression of it, not when it's too cold to hurt.

Sam makes a mental note to perhaps one day take his distorted conception of safety and reformulate it into something that looks a little less like surrender, a little less like running straight into the arms of danger to escape the scope of its damage.

But for now he'd let himself savor the only rendition of safety he knows. If anything, Sam can create illusions and believe them. If anything, Sam can forge the same old domestic comforts out of a history of carnage, whittle happiness and faith and normalcy where the Devil carved his name and destroyed. (One hour until 12 am and Cinderella is barefoot and running for her life from a fantasy dream that isn't hers to sustain, except Sam needs to reformulate his conception of fantasy dreams, too).

Sam would give himself one night of respite, of the kind of love he used to breathe instead of air when the very air burnt holes through the fabric of the only reality he could bear to live with. One night, until sleep claims what Lucifer otherwise would... 

And then it's another self-actualization, another reinvention of another self that needs to shift and morph and adapt, fit itself into the confines of another reality, and all the nooks and crannies of solid matter and solid morality and basic human decency, relationships defined by lines and boundaries and a social code to do no harm. Or do the least harm possible, if you absolutely have to. Fixed laws and fixed rules and Sam would have to relearn them all anew. He'd have to believe there's light at the end of this tunnel and that the light isn't Lucifer this time around and never, ever, again; that harnessing every shred of willpower and resolve he can still muster into pressing on and on and on is the only choice and the only deliverance and he's done it before against all odds and every instinct and he can do it again: survive and thrive and reconcile with the burnt out versions of him that did what they had to do to remain sane, find a modicum of absolution for himself, and for them, along the way.

"Stay with me."

Lucifer snaps his fingers two times in a row before dulled half-lidded eyes and Sam jerks back into the moment with a warm resigned smile.

He's going to love him tonight, he's going to forgive him and accept him and miss him and ache for him. He's going to touch him like it hurts not to touch. For every square inch of distance that his very soul grieves, it hurts not to touch. He's going to drink up every detail he knows by heart, every scar he can't see, every damage he can't fix, every corner he'd plead to drown himself in and just be. He's going to trace the faint lines of light and bliss and good and brutal and _us_ , stare up at him like he's magic and beauty and the sun and the stars and the only god worthy of worship and let him know it too. He's going to visualize a grand fantastical future they'll never see realized and giggle like an illusioned highschool boy with a crush. He's going to kiss him and hold him and curse everyone who's ever crossed him, tell him he deserved better, tell him he deserves the world.

Sam wouldn't make a single promise, but he would mean every single fucking word.

"With you, I'm with you. Where else would I go?"

But sleep would come, and then tomorrow is another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was another super short chapter because, thematically, it needed its own space. But hey, next chapter finally initiates plot stuff, so yay??
> 
> Also, you guys need to check out Blood of Zeus! If you're looking for very beautiful animation and gods being godly (but also petty as hell) and the coolest monsters ever and also humans getting fucked over but fighting the good fight and complex relationships and family dynamics and I can't recommend it enough! 
> 
> Thank you so much for any and every form of feedback. Thank you so much for reading!


	15. False Christs and False Prophets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam wakes up to supposedly pleasant surprises.

_ don't let me drift just yet- _

Sam wakes up to a tear-stained pillow and an empty bed. Phantom lips and limbs still intertwined with his. A chill lingers in the air with the same persistence warm wetness clings to his eyelashes. He remembers hazy half-asleep ramblings with cold fingers slithering across his face, through his hair, trails of fire on his chest. An Enochian song that is more words than melody, and words that are more song than words, all soothing, piercing, promising. A presence now gone that infiltrates his dreams, saturates them with the kind of full overflowing peace that hurts.

Cleaning out this particular closet feels like a mutually assured destruction. The loss is too fresh.

Sam would be knees-deep in a purgatory of regrets if it weren't for the flashes of vibrant crimson and pink and bright orange that cut through the pale beige of his room and assault his peripheral vision. A distinctive fragrance battling for dominance with the omnipresent scent of  _ hospital _ except Sam doesn't need to see it to identify it and a whiff is more than enough.

There's a single Stargazer Lily flower on his bedside table.

His heart skips a beat, or stutters, or halts, he doesn't know. It doesn't matter because it's back to business before he can blink, thumping loud and furious behind his ribs.

_ Blind and in pain and in love and believe me, please, believe me- _

But this isn't Lucifer being tongue-in-cheek. Which is not to say the irony isn't intentional, the recognition, the triggered memories. For all the doubts and the hurt and the manufactured hurdles, Sam's love confessions and his white-hot bristling need to prove them true had once endured and persevered and passed all tests with flying colors. Because the Devil didn't bargain with his heart and you either loved him in the thick of his senseless unapologetic cruelty or you didn't at all. And Sam... Sam did.

_ Lilies for when Lucifer believed it.  _

This isn't a reminder so much as an old ritual, then. Lucifer's brand of 'romantic,' relentless, whether he's on the giving or the receiving end of it. Always a lily among the thorns of some kind of hurt, some kind of strife that gives it substance, a beautiful brutal thing that requires feeding and Lucifer, ever so patient, would feed it, if it's his turn to feed it, and this is a gift-exchange and a message and a promise and-

_ He's not going anywhere... _

And the flower lies there delicate, innocuous, a vow they've taken together to fill up on each other with all the pieces made for each other until they're whole and true and sure again when each other were all they had. And there's a certainty to it that is more blunt honesty than anything Lucifer would ever pretend to say; it shoves itself down Sam's throat with a ferocity that wrecks him, for all the versions of him that knew eternity and the underlined quality of ever-lasting that comes with it, played the same game long enough to understand how obsessively the Devil loves. 

And how he demands the same in return.

There’s too much barbed history between the lines. Sam feels complicit, again.

He knows, he knows the circle they’re running in its glorious inescapable infinity; he knows the song and dance. But this isn’t the cage. And Lucifer can try to toss their endless familiar affections Sam’s way like a grenade, expect charred pieces and compulsive adoration and same old same old all he wants. But this isn’t the cage. And as few and far between as Sam's options can be, at least this he won't reciprocate. 

A heavy insistent sickness still twists his guts into knots. The butterflies from times past are now wasps and they won't stop buzzing. He makes the conscious decision to breathe because he hasn’t, just realized he hasn’t, in a minute. Hasn’t taken his eyes off of the goddamn flower either. 

But there’s noise outside and too close and Sam flinches, stares, jumps off his bed to grab it by the stem and shove it under his pillow. Another act of forced complicity, to bury the body he didn’t mutilate, clean the scene of a crime he didn’t commit, their dirty little secret anyway.

Is that Dean?

“You say he’s fine, doc, he’s fine, just let me in.”

Soft rapping at the door, indecipherable chatter, and then it swings open. 

Sam steels himself.

And yes, it’s Dean, and he’s beaming like the sight of his little brother with his feet firm on the floor and the sharp lucidity in his eyes is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

“Sonuvabitch, Sammy! You don’t look like the walking dead anymore! Man, I thought-”

He doesn’t finish his sentence because he doesn’t need to. And Sam doesn’t have it in him to swallow due congratulations when this survival comes with a price yet to pay. He can’t seem to school his rigid expression into anything happier, so he reaches for a hug instead. Wraps his arms around his brother and holds on a little too tight. And he relishes the warmth and the normalcy as much as he does the opportunity to conceal the ugly truth written plain and incriminating on every dip and curve in his face. 

“I’m fine, Dean. Looks like I’m not gonna die this time around either.”

Dean pulls back first, his demeanor all so pleasant, claps Sam on the shoulders zealously, “Nope. You know you’re not allowed to.”

It’s a joke. Sam doesn’t laugh. 

“Finally managed to work out a visit- huh, how you holdin’ up?” 

Sam nods and rubs the back of his neck, keeps his eyes averted. He seats his brother strategically as far away from the pillow as the little room can allow, positions himself right next to it and guards it with his own body, with his own scent, “Good, good, much better-” and Dean is grinning so broad and wide and Sam tries to match it out of courtesy alone, decides to give him a few minutes of unfiltered relief before dropping what could possibly be another looming apocalypse on his already overworked shoulders, “Uh, listen, Dean. I think we should get me out of here? I’m sleeping again, eating, functional. As good as it’ll get really. And I guess-”

“You still seeing him, Sammy?”

Sam’s fake smile doesn’t weather the question. He sucks his lower lip through his teeth, “Less, but yeah, yeah I am.” He fidgets, too many words crawling up his throat like spiders and he keeps them down, down, down, “But I can handle it. It’s- it’s manageable. I need to get out. We’ll need to talk. I need-”

Dean interrupts again, “Yeah, well, last time you were ‘handling it,’ it screwed you up big time and you almost killed me, didn’t you?”

Sam huffs something sharp and involuntary, blinks twice in a row, “I- yeah, it’s not-”

“I mean, Sammy, it’s great and all you’re standing and talking and not practically falling to pieces as we speak, but I can’t have you out there hunting if you’ll just suddenly look at me and see a monster, or, huh, stay behind chatting with  _ Lucifer- _ ”

Sam attempts to laugh the stunned indignation away. It’s a sad little effort. He fails. 

“Look, man, I want you fully back in the game before you’re, well, back in the game. ‘Cause last time, hoo boy, that didn’t end well.”

“Dean…” and perhaps Sam didn’t expect the casual ambush, or the poking at still open wounds so callously, but he gets it, he does. Not a single word can be refuted because how do you refute the truth? And sure, Dean can be a little harsh and he has a lot to deal with and Sam would argue an entirely different case because he doesn’t know how to defend himself against what he actually did and can’t undo, “Dean, fuck, this room is a prison and if I’m not out of here, I- I start adapting, I start acting like a prisoner with a life sentence. I adapt. I don’t wanna make this normal. Not again, not again.”

There’s a quality of desperation in his tone that he allows out as prelude. Because he’s going to tell him. Because no matter how much or how often it feels like his fault, it isn’t. Because drowning in shame and secrets had only ever alienated or antagonized one or both of them, forced them into confined corners and overcompensations and suicidal last minute solutions that were more disaster than the actual problem. 

Because Sam shouldn’t allow anyone, including himself, to divide and conquer.

But Dean… Dean sounds more dismissive than anything.

“Sucks, man. I get it. I know what being cooped up does to you,” he shakes his head and leans a little forward in his chair, his sigh is exasperated and his resolve leaves no room for negotiation, “Dude, I want you out and on the road, I do. But I can’t do that. Hell, I don’t think the doctors here would let me do that-”

“Since when do we-” Sam stops himself, because Dean has already said it first. It’s not about the doctors. It’s about him and his instability. That he’s dangerous, a wild card, a burden. He clamps his lips shut. 

“Okay. Right. Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Sorry.” 

And Sam is not sure what he’s apologizing for but it doesn’t matter because he always has something to apologize for. And there’s still the cherry on top, there’s still the truth. There’s still Lucifer and why Dean’s precious baby brother is still breathing when he shouldn’t be anymore… there’s still that.

Funny how Sam has this clawing doubt that whatever he’d tell Dean, it would automatically fall under Sam’s general umbrella of crazy. Dismissed too, not real. 

“Are you, really?”

Sam scrubs a hand over his face, “Am I what?”

“Sorry? What are you sorry for, Sam?” Dean curls his lips, and then he snickers, “Sorry you went from almost catatonic to… this? Sorry he healed you? Snuggled you to sleep? Sorry you got your rocks off down his throat and cried his name? Nah, Sammy, I don’t think you’re sorry enough.”

Not. Dean.

The realization hits instantly. The nausea follows right after. Sam's eyes snap shut. He grits his teeth like they owe him money.

"I mean, it's hilarious, bunk buddy, how you can trust something like him when you can't even trust anything you see. No?"

“This is getting old. Fuck off.”

And Sam forces his skittish fluttering gaze to the door. Because Dean, the real Dean, is out there looking for a cure, and he’s not here, and this isn’t real. He’s going to remember that. He won’t lose himself in the illusion this time. He’s going to remember that. Nothing he says should matter. 

“Ooh. Touchy this morning, are we? Figures. What, don’t you miss me?” It grins, and it’s still wearing Dean’s face. Looks so real it hurts. And for a moment there, its eyes are kind and its smile is genuine and Sam could almost believe it isn’t a wolf in sheep’s clothing just waiting to reveal itself.

He pulls himself off the bed and moves towards the door, his muscles jittery, restless. Always this irrational need to escape when he should know better. Can’t run from himself. 

“Right, I forgot. Because even after this you won’t have time for Dean, will you?” It grunts, rising to Dean’s full height, cocks its head and scoffs, “Because, and I’m paraphrasing here, if you get rid of me? You’d like to just fuck off with  _ Lucifer _ and be all Lucy and Ethel about it, right? Because you  _ love _ him.”

Sam breathes in interrupted distressed huffs, keeps walking. 

_ Ignore it, ignore it, not real.  _

“Satan. The friggen’ capital ‘d’ Devil. I swear to god, Sammy, this is just Ruby all over again, except instead of demon blood he’s stringing you on with bits of false love and promises. Are you really that gullible? What would Bobby think? Hell, what would other hunters think? ‘Cause if they heard you were butt-buddies with the uh, Prince of Darkness? That line between human and monster blurs real fast and it gets real ugly.”

Sam pauses, hand on the doorknob, swallowing something thick and sour and tensing every muscle. He turns aggressively, and he tries to look him in the face, Dean’s face, when he’s bewildered and damn-near disgusted because Sam is a fucking freak. Again. 

“Why won’t you-” He hisses through his teeth, “-just let me fucking breathe for a second?”

“Dude, you got your three hours.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Real-Lucifer free, might I add. I practically did you a service. So sit down, shut up,” and he takes a sip from a beer he hasn’t been holding three seconds ago, “and let me talk? Think of it like I’m… staging an intervention.”

“No thanks,” Sam shakes his head, pushing the doorknob down and the door open. He stares at the outside of his room blankly. Very quiet outside. He is almost too scared to move. Lucifer- this Lucifer, or Dean, or whatever the fuck is in his head intent on driving him batshit crazy, never takes kindly to running away from a conversation. 

True to expectations, Dean is instantly right in front of him. He shoves Sam back into the room, aims a cruel sucker punch straight to his face. At least he wouldn’t torture Sam. At least, not the same as Lucifer, because he still acts like Dean. How Dean fights, how he strains, how he’d beat Sam down. 

“Bad choice.”

And Sam staggers back but doesn’t make a sound past a low startled grunt, blood ringing behind his ears and head slightly heavy. His heart rate escalates and in an instant he is panting like air is never enough. He shakes his head again,  _ not real, not real, just you, god fucking damn it _ . And he tries, tries to calm down and watches himself fail miserably. He starts yelling. 

“What do you want? What’s your end-goal? Fucking kill myself?”

Because funny enough, Lucifer would bring him back. This doesn’t end with death. 

“No, no, I don’t expect you to slice your wrists open and call it a day. But Sam- what exactly do you call not eating, not sleeping, denying yourself basic movements so long as you’re not running from a conjured torture? Umm… at least until your knight in shining armor is here to feed you off his hand and tell you a bedtime story-” His eyes widen, smacks his lips and slams a fist against the wall as if he’s just got it. His very own eureka moment.

“Starting to think it’s all a cry for attention, Sammy, is it?”

He starts stepping forward. Too close for comfort. Sam is stuck in the same involuntary head-shaking because he can’t verbalize how fucking unfair this is.

“Go. Away. I’m perfectly capable of self-flagellation if that’s what you’re here for. Go. Fucking leave me alone.”

“Nah, just here for a fun little heart-to-heart. So answer me this- am I gonna need to gag you and tie you down just so we can sit and brotherly-bond?”

Sam presses his lips and his left leg twitches with the urge to just run, to skip past the door and bolt through the halls and out, out, out. Because he can’t breathe here, and yesterday, yesterday is still too fresh and vivid in his head and he is pinned down and he’s thrashing uselessly against invisible cuffs and it hurts, it hurts so much he can’t bear the thought. 

Dean gestures vaguely with his beer, “Because if…  _ he _ ,” spits out the word like it’s poison, “Gets to sit and chat, I do too. So what’ll it be, Sammy?”

“Okay, let’s chat.” Sam huffs, arms held in front of him in an attempt to placate, and it feels like jumping head first into a shallow ice-cold pool and crashing against its floor all at once. “Nothing you’ll tell me I don’t already know. But fine, fine, talk.”

“Remember that uh, case you looked at when you went to Stanford? State of… well it was either Iowa or Illinois, you clearly don’t remember too well. Let me refresh that a little bit. State of whatever vs. Johnson. State pressed charges for rape and assault, the victim fought against it. When he went to jail she lobbied for him. They sent letters, and he was just as verbally abusive in those as he was at home. Remember what you thought about that, Sammy?”

Sam collapses on the edge of the bed and chuckles something sharp and near-manic, “Trauma bonding. Stockholm syndrome. Really fucking tragic. Thanks for the armchair psychology. I know.”

“Do you though? Because half the time-”

Sam cuts him short. His bones feel loose, uncooperative, all spare parts and barely his to control. He can’t stop the occasional tremors, he can’t shove down the fury. He buries his face in his palms and scrubs erratically.

“Half the time I miss him and I love him and I want to go back home. That what we’re trying to establish here? That when I think of him I think home and home is terrible and terrifying and makes me fucking sick to my stomach how I can still miss it? You know- for being me, you’re so utterly out of touch it’s ridiculous. I know. I’m fucked up, I’m too fucked up. I’m trying. Maybe if you’ll leave me the fuck alone for a second I’ll find a way back to myself. Maybe if you’ll give me a fucking break I can-”

Dean drops his beer and it shatters and the noise makes Sam jump, shuts him up. 

The hallucination tuts, “Holy shit, dude, aren’t you dramatic. I don’t care how much you’re pining for the fucking devil or how hard he makes you between the legs. This whole will-they-won’t-they soap opera bullshit is irrelevant. Your masochism is irrelevant. What I was saying…”

He pauses for dramatic effect, claps his hands together and rubs, “is… you’re going to say yes to him, Sam. In one of those moments, the half-time, the breaks. When you’re his good little bitch. You’re going to say yes to him in a heartbeat.”

Sam chokes on a no and sputters something pitiful and unintelligible instead. 

“I mean, we’ve been tip-toeing around this for a while, haven’t we? Some pathetic part of you can’t say no to him. Too chickenshit or too doe-eyed in love, tomato tomahto. You won’t say no to him when he eventually asks. And you know he’ll eventually ask, Sam; don’t tell me he won’t. Don’t tell me the  _ father of lies  _ isn’t telling you exactly what you want to hear and you’re too wrapped up in your own gothic romance novel to see it.”

But Lucifer never asked in the cage, never addressed the one ‘yes’ that got them there, never approached the subject even when Michael did. 

And Sam knows one thing, if any. Right there at the back of his head where all the barely glued together pieces of him are still shrieking, trying to make a case for Lucifer, for the faces of him Sam still loved, desperate, oh so fucking desperate to actually believe he could change. The pieces he keeps muted because he can’t bear the sound of their hope. There, Sam knows one thing above all: if Lucifer ever asks for another ‘yes,’ then that would be it. That would be closing the door. 

And Sam would rip his heart out and tear it to shreds and watch it burn to ashes before he’d ever say ‘yes’ out of love. 

“No.”

“No? You’re sure? Why don’t you prove it?” Dean hums, and then he isn’t Dean anymore. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was supposed to be a massive 10K chapter because yours truly promised plot reveal except I should really stop making promises because shit happens! (also we lost a huge chunk of content due to a server/browser/whatever malfunctioning and stuff needed to be rewritten and that was not cool.) Anyway, decided to publish what we have ready for now anyway and hopefully next chapter will be up soon too. 
> 
> Also you guys are awesome and your feedback means everything! Thank you so much for reading!


	16. How Have We Polluted You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam tries to crawl out of a hole where every choice is not exactly a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly Sam angst and terrible vile stuff. General tags apply. 
> 
> (Also another huge chapter split into two because apparently I can't handle editing or posting more than 4K words, so, sorry? We're still in the pit and we'll get plot like next chapter, so, again, sorry)

“Sammy.”

This time when the hallucination wears Lucifer’s face, Sam actively reminds himself of the scars that aren’t there. The old vessel worn anew burning out for every minute an archangel occupies skin too humble to contain his light. Sam has memorized every new dent and crack in the flimsy exterior of _human_ , some of which right as they manifested. Traced their alignments like a constellation most of the night before. The stubble too, the scratch of it, an entirely other league of cold. 

Sam clings to these small distinctions between real and illusion for dear life. He’s not sure to what end.

“Look at you romanticizing a lethal dose of radiation to the face. Real fucking cute, bunk buddy, But hey, not gonna take that from you. It’s the cage we’re gonna reminisce about after all. And I kept this clean shaven back home, didn’t I?” 

Lucifer, _without scars, without stubble, not him_ , thumbs at the side of his face and Sam nods hectically. 

“Right. Tell you what, give me your best ‘never gonna happen’ speech and then let’s make it happen together nice and slow, hm?”

Sam white-knuckles the bed-sheets beneath him and feels himself sink. Tries to reason with his own madness, gives it the benefit of the doubt, coddles it.

“Listen, listen- I know I’m compromised; I know I have a mountain of conditioning to dig my way out of. I know I keep falling. But I’m going to break the cycle. I’ll find my way through. I swear it- I swear it. I’ll not trust him. I’ll not let him in. I’ll never say ‘yes’ to him.”

Lucifer rolls his eyes and quirks his head, amused. 

“This isn’t the cage. This isn’t the cage and y- you’re just me.”

Sam says it with as much conviction as he can muster, makes himself sound so sure. But this shouldn’t be the cornerstone of his resolve and they both know it. 

Lucifer shoves him onto the bed and arranges him into a sitting position and smoothes a hand over his hair like a child would a barbie doll and the automatic note with which Sam’s frozen limbs comply to the maneuvering is astounding. 

“Sam, Sam, Sam, you sneaky whore,” Lucifer shifts and pins Sam’s lower half between his knees, straddles him, gets comfortable, “Gonna say ‘no’ to yourself and count that as a win? I don’t think so.” He cups Sam’s face with both palms and leans forward until they’re forehead to forehead and, “Guess we’ll have to get you in the right headspace first. What do you say, champ?”

Sam is smart enough to understand this if nothing else: this rejection means jack shit if Sam genuinely believes he’s pep-talking himself up in front of a mirror. The ‘no’ rings null and void if he’s just screaming it loud and fearless to an imaginary life-coach dressed as the monster under his bed but isn’t him, and Sam knows it’s not him, and this little simulation can’t possibly render authentic outcomes as long as he knows it’s not him.

And looks like no part of him is willing to entertain the illusion of a false victory. Because if Sam can’t prove this to himself once and for all, everything on forward is a charade of consent and a ticking time bomb and perhaps…

Sam gets why it’s necessary. Is almost, almost on board. 

“You’re going to hurt me, until I look at you and see him, and then-”

“And then we’ll see how you fare. Wouldn’t you wanna know, Sam? Behind this layer of pseudo-resilience, wouldn’t you wanna know how the big show will actually go down?”

Lucifer smiles something lopsided and expectant. The same tinge of invested interest in his eyes familiar to every time he’d introduce a new game or a new test and Sam is so far down a rabbit hole of no-other-choices and a sickly cornered sort of desperate insanity where none of this sounds insane anymore. 

Lucifer always made it so that every suffering felt necessary, every choice that wasn’t a choice, necessary, paramount, imperative to a grand conclusion Sam _needed_ to reach and perhaps…

Perhaps this is the lesson here. Sam is set up for failure every step of the way and he’s grasping at the straws of control and autonomy except he’s still running in Lucifer’s mazes and he’s not even fucking here. 

It’s dehumanizing. It crushes him. It muddles his brain and drains logic out of him and Sam can’t be this thing again, this feral thing in a perpetual state of survival mode because this is the Sam that would say yes. This is the Sam that would do and say and be _anything_ to make it stop. 

“I won’t- I won’t play,” Sam shakes his head decisively and anchors himself to a newly found interpretation of agency, still too young to materialize fully or claim purpose. He considers fighting his way out of the hallucination’s physical grip for the sheer defiance of it, just to show himself that he would. He doesn’t because fighting windmills of his own making only to have them strike back and win would be tragically comical. 

Words though, those he can fight with on semi-equal terms.

“I won’t let you hurt me again for- for ‘my own good’ or, or to prove uh- a point. This isn’t the way. Should have never been the way. It’s rigged. All your games are rigged. I won’t play.”

“Let me?” Lucifer air-quotes and huffs an incredulous chuckle, “Roomie, don’t you think that ship has long sailed and sunk?” He sticks out his lips in a pout, all mock-sympathy and amusement, “Ah well, you refusing to play just makes you the worst team player on the field, because guess what?” And his volume escalates, sing-song and too fucking chipper, “We’re playing anyway.”

But this is where it’s glaringly obvious that this isn’t Lucifer. Lucifer wouldn’t just drop his parody of endorsed free will, wouldn’t just plain out force it, wouldn’t be so transparent, so… crude. Sam breathes out a sigh of relief he can’t begin to translate the reasoning behind.

It dissipates too quickly anyway. 

“Now, funny thing is, you don’t need a tongue to say yes. Not really. But what you do need it for is to decide between my hands and a pair of kitchen shears. Thoughts?”

All bravado aside, Sam can’t stop trembling. Cold sweat trickles down the back of his neck, punctuates the grip of all too familiar panic as it crawls its way up his spine. 

Endurance was a funny little concept in the cage. Malleable, bendable. Sometimes Sam was expected to keep steady hands and a conversation while he eviscerated himself. An exercise in self-control Sam had trained himself to master by the time it got too boring. Sometimes Sam was expected to beg and plead and pray because it sounded pretty, was only ever tedious when Sam would lose himself in the haze of erosive blinding agony and repeat the same words like a broken record ad infinitum, without a hint of creativity or passion. Sometimes Sam would ask very nicely for awful horrid things to relieve a nauseating wave of mental anguish that made him question his very existence. And sometimes, when Lucifer was relatively in a good mood, the exact same torture would hurt… good.

For what it’s worth, Sam’s very eloquent pleas and his compliance and a million different yeses never really made it stop. Sam still had to live through a million different cruelties anyway. What’s one more?

“Care to share with the class?”

And Lucifer taps his index finger against Sam’s parted lips, keeps a patient rhythm, soliciting an answer that, in its own right, is a game in its own right. 

His hands were always worse. Slow, leisurely, glacial. But you pick whatever tool was presented as an option and it was a personal offense to the one entity Sam revolved his entire survival strategy around not offending. 

“Shears,” he says, anyway.

A barely audible drowned sound. And maybe Sam shouldn’t have chosen at all. But his vocal cords know to cooperate when questions come with a countdown to consequences and in all fairness Sam doesn’t have the mental capacity to fight every single battle on every single front. 

He’s going to focus on what’s important: he’s not playing, and he’s not going to say yes, and this… this isn’t Lucifer. 

Not-Lucifer chuckles and shrugs as if he can’t see the point, gives Sam a patronizing pat on the cheek, “The mental gymnastics on you, Sam. It’s honestly making my day. Well, anyway-” He fiddles with a freshly summoned pair of shears, rusted and old and so dull it wouldn’t cut through a sheet of paper with any measure of ease on its best day, “Open your mouth nice and wide for me.”

Sam is still trying to regulate air. He can’t quite tell if it’s worse to anticipate pain or outright experience it. There’s a fretful heaviness to knowing he can’t escape what’s coming, a solid constant thing that paralyzes him. And the thing is, the human brain doesn’t exactly store memories of physical pain all too well. It stores the circumstances, the reactions, the emotions, a few buzz words of description, but the actual feeling? Not particularly useful in any evolutionary sense. 

Except apparently Sam has a hidden library of those memories in exquisite detail and all the hallucination has to do is pick and choose. 

Sam would rate getting his tongue ripped out as somewhere above denailing and a few levels below a messy amputation.

_-why am I doing this to myself?_

He hesitates for two seconds, blinks a stray tear away and opens his mouth anyway. He curls his fingers in Lucifer’s shirt, doesn’t tug or pull and the point isn’t to stop him. There’s no stopping him. But he needs to hold onto something and Lucifer is always a grounding weight even when he’s not real.

_please..._

There’s a soft, gentle knocking at the door and, like divine intervention, it interrupts the inevitable. Sam doesn’t move an inch out of position, slow to register anything outside his zoomed in vision and the ingrained awareness that there’s never anyone else but the two of them, never anyone on the door to save him. 

But the hinges creak, the door swings open. Lucifer groans exasperatedly, face scrunching up before he lounges in Sam’s lap and reaches up to nudge his mouth closed.

“Back to the land of the living, buddy. Focus.”

Another light slap on the cheek. Sam flinches and his frantic gaze darts to the intruder. 

“Hey there, Sam.” 

A nurse, young and timid and distressed and offering the sweetest of smiles nonetheless as she steps into the room, sets the tray she’s carrying on the desk and-

_Lucifer didn’t slaughter them all after all._

“I’m so sorry I didn’t check on you earlier. I don’t know what-” she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, guilty, “I brought an extra chocolate pudding for you. Are you hungry? I’m so sorry. How are you holding up?”

Sam is pretty sure being snapped into dreamless sleep by the actual Devil in the middle of her night shift is not exactly her fault. But he neither has the energy nor the humor to reflect on any of this right now. 

He still attempts to find his voice and then attempts some more to force it into something comforting, a little less miserable and a lot less terrified, “Uh- I’m fine. Feeling… better.” But Lucifer is carding his fingers through Sam’s hair and he’s shifting slowly in his lap and he’s grinning like this is bound to be entertainment of the week and Sam can’t breathe again. 

“It’s okay,” he croaks, scrubs a hand over his face and keeps it there a moment longer than necessary until Lucifer swats it off his eyes, “I slept through the night- it’s, it’s okay.”

He stares back at the hallucination, pleading, and then right back at her, “Don’t worry about it, really. Thank you.”

“Well, you missed your midnight meds.” She makes her way over, pressing her lips apologetically and bringing a paper cup of water and another of pills along with her, “We won’t double the dose or anything, but I’ll change the schedule t-”

Something about her skin doesn’t seem to sit right, too waxy, uneven. And for a moment Sam blames it on the slightly dingy fluorescent lighting but then it’s peeling…

“-so instead of before lunch, I’ll check with the doctor if-”

Skin slouching off at the wrists and falling to the floor in thin wet slaps…

“-your meds, Sam?”

Muscles exposed and twitching with sticky, sticky, sticky blood.

“Sammy, you’re ogling. It’s rude.”

Sam’s leg bounces involuntarily, as if an electric current just breathed life into his limp stiff body and he shakes his head violently, his chest heaving and his stomach turning and…

“Sam?”

And Lucifer is pushing down against his crotch and curling his fist into the hair at the back of Sam’s neck and he laughs merily, like this is funny, like this is adorable, “Come on, buddy, you’ll keep the lovely nurse waiting?”

Sam stares at the arm extended to him and blinks, “Thanks, sorry, thanks.”

And then he’s snatching the two cups and tossing the pills in his mouth quickly, water right after, feels the edge of the shears in Lucifer’s hand dig right below his Adam apple as his throat bobs.

“Swallow.”

He coughs, sputters most of the water all over his chest and then he coughs some more. 

“Are you alright, Sam?”

She looks concerned, kind, genuinely concerned, brow creased and leaning over slightly and there’s a hand on his shoulder, warm and supportive, and then the nurse is running another bloodied hand all over her face, pausing to lick at her palm, trailing down her chest and leaving smears of red and flecks of waxy skin on her pale uniform. Sensual and soft and inviting. And it’s not real. Of course it’s not real. 

Sam gazes up at Lucifer and mouths an inaudible please. 

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Sam. We never really play with anyone else in the room. It’s an absolute shame.”

“Sam, stay with me. Are you seeing something right now?”

“I’m okay, okay, just woke up from… from a nightmare. But I’m okay. Not- not seeing anything really, just -uh, just woke up.” Sam blurts out frantically, forcing his gaze to remain on her and to stop looking so fucking horrified by the gore of it all, the sickness of it as Lucifer in his lap shifts and turns and pushes down against his dick and Sam presses his quivering lips, heart beating an insane rhythm too loud he could hear it. 

“Oh. I’m sorry about that. It’s alright. I tend to have ni-”

Another soft reassuring smile. And then she shoves two fingers past her parted lips and starts sucking on them vigorously.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to block the image and the slurping noises and the nauseating stink of fresh carnage. 

“Remember that one time when we cut your eyelids off?”

Sam forces his eyes open because he knows a warning when he hears one. He grabs at his own temples with hysterical urgency. His voice is raspy, strangled, distraught, “Think I could have, um, some… some painkillers? My head is killing me.”

_Shoot me choke-full of morphine please please please._

Whatever the nurse says is unintelligible because she has half her fist down her unnaturally stretched throat now.

“Aw, aren’t you a precious little junkie. You want the good stuff, huh? Don’t quite blame you.” Lucifer shrugs and leans in to kiss and nibble and bite at Sam’s neck and he’s grinding his hips against Sam’s and, “But we know that doesn’t do much more than make you woozy, at this point. Plus, I don’t really appreciate you trying to cheat your way out of our date night.”

Sam wants to scream and rip his hair out and he wants to throw himself off the fucking window and he wants to run and break and vomit and curl in the corner and he wants to die. 

He wants to scream, or he wants to rest. 

_-why am I doing this to myself?_

But he’s mostly still and he’s mostly silent and save for the hint of wildness in his eyes and the sweat drenching his t-shirt and the thudding of his heart out of his chest, the nurse couldn’t tell, really. 

Patient hallucinates. Anxiety. PTSD. It happens. 

“-your vitals now if you don’t mind, Sam?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.”

The nurse gives a small nod, takes Sam’s hand and clips a pulse oximeter to his middle finger. And she’s smearing saliva and blood across his skin and it’s starting on her face, too, starting at the eyes as her cheeks sag and her skin splits and it falls to dangle from her chin.

Lucifer bites through the crook of his neck raw. It’s fire and teeth and ruthless and Sam is stifling every groan, every knee-jerk reaction to cry out and pull back. His body is full to bursting with every suppressed emotion, disgust and horror and pain and embarrassment and indignation and they scratch at his inner walls and howl for freedom and Sam only lets the tears out. 

At least the nurse is leaning over him to take his pulse and not looking straight at his face.

“Please stop…” He mouths again.

“Do we wanna fuck her, Sammy, what do you think?”

The two top buttons of the nurse’s dress pop open as she bends over, half of her breast exposed and mangled. Sam clenches his fists into the sheets beneath him and muffles a cry around bile rising heavy and insistent and threatening to spill out and drain him dry. 

“Please stop- _please_ ,” inaudible again, because Lucifer is looking at him now like he is genuinely waiting for an answer. 

“Betcha she’d like it. Beg for it. I bet you could make her scream. You wanna fuck her tits? They’re big, could wrap all the way around your cock. When’s the last time you had sex with a woman? Was it Ruby? When’s the last time you weren’t the one getting spread open and fucked?” Lucifer murmurs, too casual, too vulgar, licks at where he’s been biting. 

“Alright,” She hums, pulling back and taking out a stethoscope. “I’m going to need you to sit up a little straighter for me, let me listen to you breathe, okay?” 

But her face is gone. Left muscles, eyes, nothing else. They flex as she speaks, as she swallows, and the blood is dripping, dripping, sliding down over her chest and the skin there is peeling away too.

Sam nods faintly, face pale of all colors as he straightens up and hectically wrinkles the sheets around his thighs and crotch because he is getting fucking hard and Lucifer is all hands, all undivided attention, won’t stop whispering filth.

“What, uh, time… What time is it?”

Meaningless conversation to drown out Lucifer’s voice, to ground himself in her real voice because she doesn’t look like a person anymore and she's still fucking smiling. 

“A little past 5 in the morning. Doctor will be here in a couple of hours. He’ll be very happy to see you doing so well. And then we’ll discuss painkillers, okay?” She mumbles, gentle, trying so hard to help, to soothe. Her kindness sickens him. Doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t deserve it.

And Lucifer’s hand is on his cock, stroking slowly before he squeezes, thumbnail digging into the slit, “We should really get you laid, Sam. All this pent-up energy. One blowjob every millennium is clearly leaving you high and dry. Now you’re getting all hot and bothered for our busty faceless skinless friend and I wanna talk standards but-”

“Alrighty then,” the nurse carefully raises Sam’s shirt, places the stethoscope to his back, “can you take some deep breaths for me?”

“Think you look like this when he skins you alive?”

Sam tries, tries, tries. He’s breathing too fast and he can barely control it. Can’t stand her proximity, can’t stand being touched, can’t stand the cool chestpiece pressed against his skin. 

He shoves his face down against Lucifer’s and whispers in his ear, “I’m begging you. Just give me a minute. I’ll get her out. Please.”

“Just a minute,” Lucifer hums, gracious, pulls back a little. “Sure, Sammy. Sure. I can stop touching you,” He raises his hand, wipes it on the front of his shirt. “Can’t speak for her, though.” And she leans against Sam’s back and kisses at the side of his cheek, smearing blood hot and wet across his skin and her hands are wandering under his shirt and leaving bits of skin and gore wherever they trail.

“Slow breaths, Sam, can you do that for me? Just a few slow breaths.”

Sam jerks forward aggressively, both from the hallucinated wandering hands and from the actual nurse. His words come out strained, violent, like everything he repressed for the past however long that was is now bursting out of him with every syllable. 

“Look, I wanna go back to sleep. Can you go? Can you please just go?”

“Hey, we’re almost done.”

“No, no, now. It’s not- not my problem you overslept in- in your shift and gotta do this before your boss is here at fucking sunrise. I wanna go back to sleep. Please leave. Please let me… let me sleep. Please go.”

“Now, Sammy, that’s not fair.” Lucifer tsks, and then he chuckles.

And the nurse takes a step back and stares at him, dumbfounded. Or maybe not. Sam can’t exactly read her expression when there’s nothing there but flayed flesh and bulging eyes. 

“I’m sorry, again.” She nods, a tongue darts out to wet the shredded remains of her lips, “I’ll return later then. Sleep well.”

And then slowly, tentatively, as if Sam is this unstable unpredictable madman and she needs to remain careful, quiet, placate him, she makes for the door and is gone. 

Sam slumps exactly where he is and keeps gazing at the closed door and blinking, before air blasts out of his chest with such force his lungs burn, and he breaks down in violent hectic sobs. Breathless, spent.

“There we go, baby. Now. Back to business?” Lucifer, _without scars, without stubble, not him, just me,_ croons, shifts to straddle Sam again and picks the shears back up. Right where he started. “Mouth open nice and wide for me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, are we all surviving the post-finale? Is everyone living their best life? It's okay, I'm sad too. It's the end of an era. 
> 
> Also, like, double sorrys for splitting long chapters and delaying plot again. But thank you so much for your patience and your time and any and all forms of feedback. They always make our day. Thank you so much for reading!


	17. Sing Aloud of Your Steadfast Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a null point to prove and terrible, terrible ways to prove it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay you guys so this chapter might be a little squicky in some parts. Feel free to skim through the difficult parts, but, um, the dialogue is important?
> 
> Warning: dental trauma, gore.

Sam knows the objective of this game he’s unwillingly playing anyway is to stick to his “no” through the upcoming delirium for an indefinite period of time until, well, until the part of him that was forged in extreme measures and understands nothing less buys it. 

Sam knows the end-goal isn’t suffering. That pain is merely the catalyst for a desired reaction he’s expected to subdue and rectify. And if he doesn’t (if he doesn’t alter the conclusion of an ancient equation with ancient ingredients all present and meticulously portioned for success), then he’s failed. And failure proves a point Sam didn’t exactly try to disprove.

Sam never harbored the illusion that he could endure forever. No one can. Just that in an optimal situation where he’s not being tortured until he says it, _yes_ , he won’t say it. 

He won’t say it out of fear, he won’t say it out of love, he won’t say it out of bone-deep exhaustion and need and longing and old habits. But pain and madness get things done and they get things done fast and dirty. Sam knows his limits, and he knows Lucifer’s tangled webs of rationalizations, knows this is a mockery of even Lucifer’s worst (best?) recontextualization of pain, where he wouldn’t call a spade a spade, but would at least retain enough integrity to not pretend Sam’s eventual succumbing to incessant torture is a failure, or that it says anything about Sam and his honest intentions.

Lucifer was fair about this, at least. 

Lucifer would find this cheap, insulting. Sam is almost ashamed. 

“Gotta say, Sammy. You’re doing a tremendous job playing the literal devil’s advocate. Where’s that law degree when _you_ need it?”

Sam says nothing because his mouth is wide open and prying fingers are reaching in to scratch at his tongue playfully. 

Making sense of any of this, or rejecting it on principle, doesn’t make it any easier. But Sam would indulge his presence of mind while he still can, would hold onto the fundamentals and-

“Which are, exactly?” Not-Lucifer prompts, snorting, “What are your fundamentals, Sam? That I’m not him? That when he wants his yes, he will play fair? That he won’t use everything you gave him, every little weakness, every pathetic moment of learned behavior; that he won’t twist your arm and poke where it hurts?” 

No. Lucifer would do a lot worse than twist his arm (or break it or flay it or burn it then grind it to dust). He would find a way to make enthusiastic consent the only valid, logical choice. The lesser evil. Lucifer would find a way to make ‘yes’ sound like a solution, like salvation. 

Sam is terrified of torture, sure. Only someone who wasn’t tortured wouldn’t be. But more than anything, Sam is acutely, unbearably, terrified of manipulation.

The hallucination tilts its head, contemplative, and then it winks, “Buddy, all roads lead to Rome. At least I’m cutting to the chase?”

The first cut doesn’t hurt. More like the base of Sam’s tongue is being pinched. Not a comfortable sensation but still, not outrageously painful. 

Sam knows the initial deluded resignation to just get it done and over with. The brief seconds before his system free-falls into chaos where it still thinks it can try harder this time, push through, hold its own. This momentary flicker of false faith is the only reason he remains still and schools his breathing and balls his hands into fists and braces himself…

Because if he snuffs it, this faint fire of flimsy groundless fortitude, then it’s hysteria. And whether it’s hysteria or acceptance, Sam supposes it doesn’t matter where they’re going anyway. 

It never matters. One approach or the next doesn’t matter. Techniques, methods, rationalizations don’t matter. Pain will be pain. Pain is pain. 

Sam reserves the effort. Relaxes his jaw like it’s a dentist visit. 

And then Lucifer applies just a little more pressure and it stings beyond the realm of imagination and Sam can feel capillaries bursting and individual tastebuds being popped. 

The instant agony slams into him like a raging storm and wraps him up, envelopes him, penetrates him until he can feel it beneath his skin whirling and trapped. He thrashes with it, tossing and kicking and scrabbling to push Lucifer off of him. But it’s just biology doing its thing and Sam is held in place easily. Blood fills his mouth rapidly and spills out, but also in, down his throat. He makes a gutteral incoherent noise around cold metal and cold fingers and- 

“Don’t spit it out.”

Lucifer wags a finger and wrests the shears apart to bring them out and wipe the blood on his pants, “That’s a good boy, swallow, and let me in again.”

His tongue is a heavy clammy weight in his mouth. The muscle is half torn and he chokes and gags around the gushing red and the sudden immobility and the piercing stinging burn. But he swallows anyway, sputters and coughs and sucks on stagnant air and swallows anyway. 

He tries to blink away the tunneled vision and the tears and the words slip past bloodied lips urgent and butchered.

“-uoh poin’, hh-uze-hez p- pheeze...”

“Aw, Sammy. Don’t you ever call this ongoing tragedy of a life lesson useless again. Buddy, context or none, point or no point, your suffering is the gift that keeps on giving. Don’t sell yourself short, mm?”

Lucifer purrs, eyes wide and unmistakably unhuman. He cards a drenched hand through Sam’s hair and slicks it back against his skull. His touch is deceptively gentle, comforting, and there’s a flash of the real Devil right there and Sam fucking shudders. 

“Tell me what you need to do to make this stop.”

Sam’s chest tightens, squeezes his heart until it’s dripping lava. He swallows compulsively as if the tainted taste of cold metal and saliva alone can douse the flames. It doesn’t. He slurs, “P’ove you wu’g.” 

“That’s the spirit. After the tongue we’re going for the molars.” And his expression flips in a blink. A broad taunting grin that makes Sam’s stomach twist. Lucifer forces his mouth open with one hand, gripping his jaw tight enough to crack it as the other hand reaches in and _yanks_.

There is a split second where nothing happens aside the pain before it redoubles and with a wet tearing noise Lucifer pulls Sam’s tongue free and drops it onto the bed. 

And Sam lurches forward pushing past Lucifer and doubling over on the bed, sputtering blood and howling, tearing on the dirty sheets below him and yanking at his hair, ripping damp strands out from the roots because for a long endless moment there, his entire being is consumed by a vicious throbbing, spreading, stinging misery and he won’t stop twitching with every wave of the terrible, breathtaking agony.

“Or you could prove me right. Just one tiny little word.” Lucifer croons, rubbing Sam’s back in a very brief gesture of kindness before he drags him back up by the hair and shoves his fingers back inside and seals the open wound with a searing-hot touch that burns outwards and inwards and Sam can feel the fire crawling down his throat, can feel the smoke clogging his lungs, can feel his blood _boiling._

And then it’s the molars. Two, three, Sam is not sure. It’s a blur of the same thumb, the same forefinger, soaked in red like his eyes, pinching around teeth and pulling so very slow and Sam wails and wails and he doesn’t say the word. 

“Muhk e s’op puheeze, huh…uoh moh’! uoh moh’!”

Sam knows pain. Knows a hundred different ways to endure and how, when they’re not allowed to work, none of them works. 

Embrace it. Ride It. Divert it. Beg. Placate. Dissociate. Stall. 

Negotiate. Rationalize. Panic. Sweet-talk. Bang your head against the wall. 

Offer everything, everything, everything.

A fingernail, sharp and sizzling, digs in freshly bared gums and Lucifer whispers through a god-awful ear-piercing scream, “Or… you could ask for help?”

Sam’s face is a heated swollen mess of blood and tears and sweat and glorious, gut-wrenching terror. He can’t lift his head. He can’t think straight.

“Wh- wha...?”

_No no no nonono..._

The hallucination raises a suggestive brow, grining, “You know you want to, Sam. When push comes to shove, you want to be saved more than you want to save the world. How many times in the cage did you regret jumping? Tell me the truth.”

_No no no I’m saying no- I can take more. I can fucking take more-_

“How many times you’d have slaughtered an innocent at his feet to make the pain stop? How many times you’d have mutilated a child? Ten children, to save your skin, for mercy?”

Sam hyperventilates. His chest wheezes. He doesn’t understand where this is going and he doesn’t want to understand. Because no, no, no. 

“Hhh- uoh… pheeze-”

_I’m saying no. I said no. What are you doing? Why are you doing this?_

“Hey, don’t get your panties in a punch. I’m just saying it’s an _option_ ,” Not-Lucifer gestures with his free hand, the other still tugging on sensitive mangled flesh, “I mean, you’re doing pretty well so far. But I wonder-”

He tilts his head, leans closer, fingernails dig and rampage and rummage and sink deeper.

“-if we bypass the foreplay and jump right into action-”

He cracks through jaw bones, scratches blindly for the nerve tucked in between. Finds it, pinches it, twists it. 

Sam sees fucking stars. 

“-if we get _biblical_ , and it hurts real good, like the good old days-”

And Sam makes a terrible keening sound and his body jolts with invisible electricity, seizuring violently on and off the bed and the sheer monopolizing agony steals his breath and his vision and his thoughts and his identity, and his brain is cotton candy and fog and he’s trying to crush his skull against the metal headboard for any semblance of relief or oblivion until he is smearing the painted white bars red and-

“Will you pray to Daddy then, whore?”

\----

Death’s pocket dimension doesn’t offer much in ways of entertainment. Death himself is often either in his library or out on whatever business a primordial entity busies itself with to bide its eternity and keep the universe running, or balanced, or intact.

But the lack of stimulation and the long endless walks in a barren land, seemingly revolving around itself so that one is always back where they started, and the general utter boredom, well, those are not Lucifer’s worst problems. 

He can handle those. He’s used to a much worse brand of nothing.

It’s the restlessness that’s been grating on his patience. The confinement he can easily break out of but shouldn’t. The knowledge that the world outside is a door away.

He bides his time regardless. He can do that, play by the rules, prove his good intentions. Wait, wait, wait.

Mostly though, he tunes in it to Sam. Because if prayers won’t pierce through the veil and reach this god-forsaken corner of the universe whole and decipherable, he can track his grace back to his true vessel and keep an ear out for any attempts at contact. 

Lucifer can sit and wait, be a beacon for stray songs whispering his name. Oddly enough it’s not that different from the cage. _Knock and I’ll come, pray and I’ll come; I’ll always come when and only when you call_.

But unlike the cage, lucky him, he has his garden, along with the occasional reaper with more curiosity than apprehension. Like Yomiel. 

Yomiel has a lot of really stupid questions that Lucifer doesn’t really mind entertaining. And in turn, the young angel of mercy talks in abundance about routes to and from Earth. Highways to Heaven and highways to Hell. Except he’s never really allowed to go anywhere past the veil. The gleam in his eyes when Lucifer waxes poetic about the blue little planet in all its glory behind the curtain of grey is genuinely a little amusing, a little sad. 

“...driven all the way down, Yomiel. The gates may as well be sentient; if you were to look on a cloudy day-”

And then Lucifer pauses, his brow furrows. Yomiel stiffens. 

“Something is the matter, Lucife-?”

“Shush.”

Because he could hear something. Not exactly a prayer so much as a distress signal. A soul he knows down to the molecular level reaching out without words. Light to light, like to like. All that is his and knows to call homebase in times of strife on instinct. 

“Know where your boss is?”

And his overall friendly warm demeanor is suddenly blank and hard and a wall of ice. 

Yomiel blinks and clears his throat, “Well, Lucifer- I don’t- we don’t always know. I don’t. Er- are you needing something from him?”

“What does it look like?”

And Lucifer unfurls his wings, already eyeing the direction of the door he’s not supposed to go through without a chaperone and if the thought was offensive before, well, it’s downright infuriating now. 

“Aha?”

“Lucifer, I’m not able to summon him. That’s not procedure.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to tell him I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Yomiel stammers, “Where- uh, I- I don’t want trouble.”

“No, you _really_ don’t. So you’ll deliver the message, yes?”

Not that Lucifer has any authority here and if he lays a hand on one of the reapers, he’s sure Death will be very unamused, but the reapers don’t know that and they don’t ask questions and they really don’t like confrontations. 

So Yomiel nods, and gets out of the way. 

\----

The world shifts and wraps around the pathway to Earth and the door to Sam’s hospital room is a light at the end of a very dark tunnel. 

And Lucifer might like to play savior, but in all honesty, being welcomed with havoc he didn’t wreak himself after a long and not exactly permitted interdimensional travel is beginning to dishearten him some. 

He shuts the door behind him and looks. Sees both reality and Sam’s manufactured nightmare. Perfectly intact tongue and jaw and the layer of butchery right beneath it. The blood on the pillow is a common factor, though. There’s a gashing wound at the back of Sam’s head and that… that is real. 

“Ah look- he’s here.”

The hallucination twists its wrist and Sam’s eyes roll back in their sockets.

He, it, whatever it is, looks positively manic. Sam is writhing beneath him and his pants are soaked in piss (real, too) and he’s snapping his head nonetheless to stare at Lucifer with more horror and shame than Lucifer can guess a reason for and he’s trying to cry something out around the fingers in his mouth but it’s unintelligible. Until it isn’t. 

_Don’t want you here- sorry, please please, didn’t mean to, don’t want you here, please go-_

“Let’s pause a second.” He inches towards the bed, eyes fixed on the other Lucifer and blinking once, reserved still, conversational, almost curious, “Fill me in. Why go so far? This could kill him, you know?”

The hallucination snorts, “Ehh, you’ve done it before. We’re trying to prove a po-”

“I said let’s pause a fucking second. Hands. Off.”

It pulls its hands off, holds them both up in an exaggerated gesture of surrender before it starts chuckling, merrily, “As _I_ was saying-”

“I’ve done everything before. Almost killed him though? No.”

Sam slumps into the bed dazed and gazing around the room wildly and he’s still sputtering blood and he’s still praying words he can’t speak. He looks haunted, and physical damage aside, he looks like he's crumbling.

_Lucifer please, please. If any of this truly means anything to you, go. I can handle this. I don't need you. Please go. Please please please._

“It’s not as if he could die down there. You are aware that a human can’t survive as a charred skeleton, right?” It asks sarcastically, shaking its head and throwing a brief glance at Sam, seems momentarily entirely uninterested in whatever he has to say. 

Lucifer presses his lips, irritation starting to seep into his otherwise neutral expression. He sits down on the edge of the bed, palm drifting to the back of Sam’s head to assess the damage, “Aha. So what point are we trying to prove exactly?”

Sam clutches on Lucifer’s arm, his grip weak but frantic, motivated. The pleading desperation in his eyes is monumental and he’s croaking something hoarse and barely audible and tugging on Lucifer’s sleeve like the fate of the entire world depends on it. 

“Gg-go… pheze uo’t-”

“Please don’t what, Sam?”

And Lucifer reaches over to press a hand to Sam’s forehead to see the memory himself except Sam is recoiling violently. And the hallucination is still laughing. 

“That he will say yes to you when you ask. The ‘big yes’? I mean, we were getting pretty close to that but then I thought, what’s the point if you’re not here for it?”

Lucifer’s brow arches inquisitively, tongue darting out to slowly lick at his upper lip. He’s considering for a second, long and heavy, before his hand slides up to stroke Sam’s hair and he smiles affectionately, tone oh so very kind, “What are you doing, Sam?”

Sam shifts away and weeps into the pillow openly. Doesn’t say or pray another word.

And Lucifer leans over him to plant a kiss on his forehead, “Baby. You wanna prove a point? That's what you need? Let’s prove a point then.”

He turns to the hallucination, lips set and eyes cold, “Fine. Carry on.” He climbs the bed and pulls Sam to position him between his legs, in his lap, his back slumped against Lucifer’s chest, “Go on. I won’t interrupt.”

Sam stiffens in his hold, his muscles are impossibly tense and he’s gritting his teeth for all the unwarranted pain it must be causing him. He breathes in sharp panicked huffs and the way he tremors and convulses right then and there like a trapped broken animal is _beautiful_. 

“Just like I told you, Sammy, he _loves_ this.” It hums, delighted and gloating. And then it dips its fingers between Sam’s lips and relishes in the full-body flinch it gets without even touching anything. “Why do you think this is happening, bunk buddy? Because everyone in this room really, truly wants it. And that includes you, deep down, hm? So be a pal and stop wasting our collective time with token resistance and empty platitudes.”

And Lucifer intertwines his fingers with Sam’s, tight and encouraging because Sam is cold and numb and he's his pride and joy and the boy won’t stop trembling. And he lowers his face and whispers against his ear, “I’m doing this for you, Sammy.”

Sam shakes his head weakly, tears trailing down a pale and bloodied face.

_No. Don’t you fucking dare say it’s for me. No._

“Ah- keep still.” The hallucination warns, this time reaching for the nerve through the mandible and shattering bones and tearing flesh and a vicious impatient brutality that Lucifer watches almost analytically.

And Sam is howling like he’s demented and he’s sinking nails into Lucifer’s hands savagely and he’s choking on the blood flooding his throat and he’s going to lose his fucking mind and why won’t he faint? Why won’t he faint already?

“Hhh- ca’ ‘ake uoh moh’. Gh-pheeze uoh moh’- ”

Lucifer nods against his hair, still murmuring, reassuring, “I know you can’t, Sammy. I don't blame you. it’s okay. It’s okay, baby.”

Sam lets out another shrill scream, spitting blood up onto his chest and wailing, kicking his legs and bucking and caught between trying to escape and instinctively trying to press further back into Lucifer as if that somehow could save him.

_Lucifer please, god, please-_

And Lucifer radiates fondness, rubbing Sam’s shoulder gently and kissing through his hair and, “I’m not doing this to you, Sammy. You don’t need to do this. I promise. Okay? I'm so proud of you, okay?”

The hallucination wrinkles its face in disgust and looks down, shaking its head. “Sam, come on, buddy. You know how to make this stop.” It wipes blood soaked hands on Sam’s shirt and grins. “Doesn’t even have to be a yes, I know you can’t make all those sounds. That’s okay. Just nod, mm? And I think I’ll move on up…”

It runs a soft, creeping hand over Sam’s face before it places its thumb just on his eyelid. “Keep still.”

Sam shakes his head violently, mad with panic and hysterical. Pupils dilating and blinking rapidly and shrieking like a possessed feral thing, “Duuh’ do zi- puheeze! Uoh hh-”

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Sam needs it to stop, stop, stop. 

_Lucifer I love you- don’t- I love you please-_

“I’m not doing anything, Sam. And I love you. You know it, you know what this is. We're proving a point once and for all, no?”

And Lucifer rests his other hand over Sam’s forehead again, fixing his head in place. He doesn’t say anything further. Just presses his lips tighter. 

Not-Lucifer jams his thumb in and presses. The pressure is incredibly overwhelming before Sam finally feels it break and there is a gush of fluid and blood and a shooting searing maddening pain that sucks the meaning out of any value or any fight and drains Sam dry of any ideology, anything precious, any higher functions, fills him up with insurmountable agony and he doesn’t care if the world burns. 

Did he ever care if the world burns?

_Yes yes yes make it stop yes please please yes yes anything please-_

Lucifer’s eyes flash bright red. The hallucination is laughing like it’s just seen the funniest thing in the world. Sam’s hand loosens around Lucifer’s and he stares ahead, the other eye half-lidded and near-manic, and his chest is heaving with every broken discordant scream ringing behind his ear and his head is going to burst with it. 

“You have nothing to prove, baby. Nothing.”

Sam nods. Wouldn’t stop nodding. 

“Cleanup on aisle three!” The hallucination calls out to the hall as if any of the attendants or demons could hear it, and slips out of Sam’s lap.

Lucifer nuzzles against Sam’s hair, eyes darting up to meet those of his mirror image, “So that’s a yes, Sammy? Final answer?”

_Anything you want please, yes, no more, no more-_

“Well, you’re welcome.” The hallucination smirks, tilts its head expectantly. 

Lucifer gives it an empty look and splays his palm over Sam’s face, healing the phantom pain and the phantom mutilations as well as the gashing bleeding wounds in his head, gradually, grace seeping in bit by bit as Sam groans and sobs and whispers incoherent thanks and sorrys and pleases.

Lucifer’s lower lip twitches.

“Terrific. So there I have it,” He pulls Sam up to curl between his arms, buries his hand in his hair and shushes, “Hmm. Now, what you’ve just successfully proven is that I can torture Sam until he says it. Until he says anything really. Which, no shit, I can. Although Sam should know I wouldn't stoop so low. And what Sammy here just proved is that his levels of endurance are remarkable when he needs them to be, but, well, he knows this too: there's no overcoming basic human biology. At least not for something like you… Good job on both of you. My turn.”

And his tone lowers, firm and dangerous and almost offended, maintaining eye-contact with the hallucination staring back at him blankly, “Problem is, you need an upgrade, buddy. You’re outdated, obsolete, you know nothing about me or what I want. Because I don’t want it, Sam. I can take it, sure, pointless display of something so absolutely self-evident, if you ask me. But I don’t want it. All yours, Sammy. Keep your yes.”

Sam doesn’t react. Empty. Hollowed out and there isn’t a fabric in him that cares enough to even register the words. Lucifer peeks inside his head for a second, finds Sam there pressed against his chest and listening to his vessel's heartbeat. Exhausted, so exhausted and brave and defeated and he did his best. Lucifer wants to shower him in praise and warmth and watch his cheeks flush with colors and life again.

But more so, he wants to reclaim every patch of skin that Sam, in his fear and delusions and self-destructive guilt, allowed himself to mar and stain. Lucifer wants to wash him clean. His gaze hardens, suddenly territorial and final and all too possessive, “Now you fuck off; Sam and I need to talk.”

“I know nothing about you? You sure?” The hallucination grins. “Wanna phone a friend?” And it picks lazily at the paint chipping on the wall, pursing its lips, “I mean- sure, got it, you’d rather play the long con. I can respect that. Gonna be citizen of the year until Uncle Death up there looks the other way. But don’t tell me I don’t know you, Lucifer. I _am_ you, 'buddy,' just as much as I’m Sam here.”

It sighs, clapping its hands together, “This form doesn’t really suit me though, does it? Like I said before, like a funhouse mirror. Mind if I slip into something else, just for variety’s sake? I’ll let you choose.”

Lucifer stares silently, grabbing on Sam a little tighter. The theatrics are familiar on a personal level. And all too abruptly, Lucifer is so unsure and the uncertainty is both threatening and very, very interesting.

The other Lucifer disappears for just a moment, before the room is filled with blinding all-encompassing light, massive wings spreading and Lucifer’s lips part in utter confusion and then his grace coils. He presses two fingers to Sam’s forehead immediately, instantly putting him to sleep. Whatever this is, Sam cannot physically witness it, and Lucifer idly wonders if Sam should even know it.

Because he’s staring at Michael, true form, true face, wings in all their glory. And then he’s staring at Raphael. And then it’s golden wings and music and a vessel with an achingly familiar stab wound and blood spotted jacket and he’s staring at Gabriel instead. 

“Or would you prefer something else?”

Sam doesn’t have those memories. Sam couldn’t possibly have those memories. Psychosis and hallucinations couldn’t possibly-

Lucifer huffs a sharp incredulous chuckle, shaking his head and slapping his thigh, part exhilarated with the sheer intrigue, part absolutely baffled beyond reason. 

“ _What are you?!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys know how much your feedback means to us right? It means a lot! Thank you so much for reading!


	18. And the Word Became Flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer gets answers, and twice as many questions.

The thing, wearing Gabriel’s face, stretches its neck and shifts its weight from one foot to the other. His expression explosive with juvenile delight, restless with the big reveal he hasn’t yet fully unveiled as if letting the moment drag a little longer in the spirit of guessing games would be fun, would be amusing. 

He looks at Lucifer as if the latter would love it, too. 

“What do you think I am? Come on, theories, deductions, a shot in the dark- I’ll take anything.”

And in all honesty, Lucifer doesn’t absolutely detest it. It’s not often that he’s surprised and even less often that he’s intrigued. He would play ball if it weren’t for the basic awareness that every unknown factor in a game he’s not fully informed on translates into a potential threat. And Lucifer enjoys nothing less than wading blindly into unfamiliar territories where he’s not exactly sure if he can disintegrate his opponent with a thought. 

“I’m not really known for my patience. What are you?”

He stares down at Sam, still fast asleep, stirring in his lap and curling to hug himself tighter, shivering. Lucifer cards his fingers through long strands of hair soothingly, looks up, again.

“Wanna try snapping me out of existence? You know you’re itching to try.”

The thing spreads its arms. Theatrical. Lucifer gives him an empty lopsided smile, almost insulted by a bait too obvious to take. 

“You’re still a projection on a white sheet. Not physically here,” He taps over Sam’s forehead, contemplative and clinical, “I’d be aiming in the wrong direction. You’re still inside him.”

“Aaaand you’re getting warmer.”

“But you’re not any of my brothers, either,” Lucifer’s voice trails off into something ancient and dribbling with ice-cold certainty, promising untold horrors at the mere prospect, “Father forbid any of them should come near my vessel. But even if, I’d have seen you.”

Not-Gabriel grins, shakes his head skeptically, “There’s a lot you’ve missed when you went in digging, Lucifer. I wouldn’t be so sure. I mean, you’ve missed me.” He draws in a deep, lengthy, breath, as if the air alone is something to savor, and he exhales just as slowly, “Real talk, though. You’ve been pretty unfocused lately. You come here like a man with a mission, do your unmediated couple therapy with our one true beau and then off you go. Where’s the, the-” He curls one hand into a fist and squeezes nothing into ash, “The vendetta, the wrath, your ambitions… it’s like, I get it, slow and steady wins the race, but where’s your old fire, man?”

Lucifer’s mouth twists. Something clicks loud and bright behind his eyes. He leans forward a little, amused, engaged and engaging him in return, “What do you know about my old fire?”

The thing holds the devil’s fixed unwavering gaze, curls his lips with the word, enunciates it almost flirtatiously, “Everything.”

And Lucifer laughs then, recognition seeping into his features hand in hand with a cocktail of invested, curious, concerned, “You’re fragments of me, my grace, and his soul. What I was experimenting with in the cage. Chemical synthesis, perfect entanglement. But it wasn’t supposed to-”

It interrupts, eyes glowing with enthusiasm too impatient to waste its own time, “Fragments of you, fragments of him. You’re missing the main ingredient again. Fragments of what you had fragments of.” And it cocks its head, suggestive and expectant, “Huh?”

Lucifer’s expression falters, and then it falls, “The mark.”

The thing snaps, “Bingo.”

And then it’s silence. And Lucifer blinks. His hand drifts to splay an open palm over Sam’s face. Middle and forefinger curl against the curve of Sam’s cold chapped lips. The boy mumbles something indecipherable in Enochian. His teeth chatter. He’s still pleading in his sleep. They can both see his nightmares clear as day.

“Why didn’t I find you, when I looked?” Lucifer asks cautiously, wrapping the blanket a little tighter around Sam’s shoulders. 

“I’m you, Lucifer. I knew where you’d look. I knew where to hide, one step ahead, one step behind. It wasn’t time then.”

Lucifer’s brow creases. Part of him is exhilarated at a level of success he didn’t think possible when he attempted ‘integration,’ every other part is horrified at whatever it is he’s talking to that’s both him and not, both Sam and not. The darkness…

“And it’s time now? Why?”

The thing stares at him incredulously, “Why? Because I’ve given you a ‘yes’ and you didn’t take it. What are you waiting for? You have no idea what’s going on, do you? Too emotional, too distracted. Fucking take it, Lucifer. Get us out of here. Let’s get back on track, merge, become. Yours for the taking. What’s stopping you?”

Lucifer presses his lips, his grace coils and knots and he scrunches his face in feral, furious, disgust. When he speaks, it’s strained, and he’s almost yelling the words at himself, for himself, in every literal and figurative way that can be, “This is just the mark talking. Always latching on to the next host like it’s nobody’s business, huh? It’s always, ‘destroy, take, annihilate.’ No strategy, no patience. Just aimless chaotic destruction. I’m. Not. You.”

“Nah. You’re all new and improved. Cut the crap, Lucifer; this is getting embarrassing. This- this need for love, for affirmation. It’s pathetic.”

Lucifer is too used to an ancient voice whispering the same mantras into his very being from within. And now it stands before him whole and complete, in his brother’s likeness and in his very own. He can’t fathom the scope of its reality, or the fact that this is the worst version of him, the one he’d buried ten feet under and wanted to rise above because it sickened him to be this hurricane of frivolous disorder. Because he was better, better, better. He is one thousand times and one better than what his Father branded him with and abandoned him to fend off on his own. 

“Need for affirmation, need for amusement, need for love, need for pain, all the same,” he mutters, distracted, “How are you sentient?” 

The thing shrugs, not particularly interested, “Ehh, who cares? I think, therefore I am. All I know is that your handiwork was too impeccable even you couldn’t undo it, when you pulled your grace out of this one’s soul. You know how matter tends to not be destroyed? Basic 3rd grade physics?” It points at Sam and wrinkles its face, “I know I’ve been locked in another cage since our precious Sammy here made it out. Story of our life, huh? Discarded, isolated, kept behind a wall. And then the wall came tumbling down…”

Lucifer scoffs, bitter, his hands fiddle with each other and he twines his leg around Sam’s, envelopes him with limbs and wings and grace, “Death isolated you with the memories. And then the mark did what the mark does.”

“You’re too hung up on the mark, Lucifer,” it spits, voice lifting in mild irritation, “You wanted this. You wanted blanket permission to access him. You wanted to merge with him so perfectly you couldn’t be separated. You wanted oneness. Well, whatever, it didn’t work to the letter. But you get the next best thing.”

“And you’re the next best thing?” Lucifer snickers, hisses, all the fire and fury of a scorned archangel seething beneath his very human skin, burning through it red-hot and eternal, “You’re an abomination. A vile mindless force of chaos no better than the phantom of the fucking opera you’ve been playing for months when you almost killed him. I can syphon you out and crush you.”

The thing stills, silent for a second, and then it drops itself on the nearby chair, crosses a leg over the other, and sneers, “You could have ‘syphoned me out and crushed me’ from day one. Why didn’t you?”

Lucifer doesn’t think, replies too quickly, defensive, “I thought you were psychosis.”

“That you could have healed. But you didn’t even try. And you know why, Lucifer.” Its expression twists into something ugly and too damn sure, “Because I’m useful. Because you needed me to stay. I mean, sure, I rubbed you the wrong way and I played a little too roughly with your toys, but you don’t want me gone just yet, do you? I do the violence for you, you keep your hands clean. You get to play savior. Otherwise he wouldn’t have a good reason to welcome you back with open arms and broken puppy dog eyes, no? Tell me this isn’t a perfect setup, Lucifer. Tell me you didn’t thank your lucky stars for the deus ex machina that is yours truly.”

Lucifer doesn’t say anything. His glare vows carnage and divine retribution. But he doesn’t say a word. 

“Now you're insulted I'm insinuating you need help. Let's get real here, buddy. You do need help. Went a little too hard in the cage, thought you'd leave hand in hand when the time comes? And then the wall happens and the boy gets rebooted, relearns the alphabet of normal. How inconvenient?”

“I wanted him to forget.”

“No. You wanted him to let go of the cage so you can get the fuck out. Because he was holding on to the cage so fucking tight, because you taught him to. You just wanted out, Lucifer. And now you want your vessel back and you’re calling it love because it sounds, what, more redeemable?” It smacks its lips, shrugs again, “Look, man, I'm not even complaining. You wanna do things your way? Sure. I want what you ultimately want. The old band back together. Oneness. Power. Freedom. And-”

Lucifer’s jaw clenches, a muscle jumps. He doesn’t say a word.

“And, uh, the whole almost killing him business. Sort of not my fault? The boy is fucking suicidal, and he hates himself so much it rubs off on me. I still have him in me, remember? I got carried away. Won’t happen again. Cross my heart.”

Lucifer remains silent. Curbs the intense, clawing, urge to tear the cancer out of Sam and sear it back into himself, into burning blistering grace that would welcome its kin back home and swallow it in, let it settle and breathe and inflame with holy fire and darkness too brutal and too familiar to contain. 

The mark was always a dominant gene. It overwhelms, it overtakes, it infects. Always had a mind of its own. Lucifer thought he’d been keeping the remnants of that under control. 

Maybe not. 

He’s still contagious. 

He rakes a hand through his hair, scratches at the back of his head. All the useless body language and nervous habits and all too human gestures he picked up from Sam and would now do when in a vessel like it’s second nature. He keeps his voice even, low, final. 

“Touch him again and I’ll destroy you.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

The thing nods, nonchalant, “‘Kay. Whatever you say. Correct me if I’m wrong, we’re keeping this on the down low, hm?”

Lies were a slippery slope. Lucifer wanted to be honest, to be real and straightforward. He wanted Sam’s trust and love and every bit of faith he believes he deserves. He wanted to keep his word with Death. No secrets, no agendas. He wanted… 

“Yes.”

But this could be useful, not in the shallow cheap ways the thing insists it’s useful for. Not that, Lucifer shouldn't need that. But he also doesn’t burn bridges he hasn’t yet fully explored. Not when those bridges are an extension of him, free and under the radar, and Lucifer is still trapped in a different prison and under constant supervision and… it would be wasteful, to remove an opportunity offering itself entirely off the board when he can keep it on a leash and... 

And so Lucifer goes digging, slips past the walls of Sam’s mind and through alleyways he knows by heart, searches, rummages, scans every fabric of his soul. The thing doesn’t hide anymore. They stare at each other silently. Lucifer studies him, catalogues every wave that makes him, learns as he goes. 

Lucifer had wondered briefly if the thing was strong enough to do more than parlor tricks and constructed nightmares. And if so, why didn’t it already? Well, it isn’t. 

No harm, no foul, then. 

“By the way,” he hums, his tone conversational now, edging on the kind of false friendliness he reserves only to an addressee he knows he can make suffer if the occasion demands it and he so wills it, “Recently found out he’s alive,” he points at Gabriel’s vessel casually, “-so that doesn’t really phase me as much as you think it would.”

Not-Gabriel stares down at its stab wound, grins, “Really? The little bastard. Good for him.”

Lucifer had said the exact same thing. He gives it a small mirthless smile, a sort of masochistic longing rearing its head and shamelessly naming its price, “Try switching to Dad… now that would hurt.”

“Oh you have no idea,” the thing’s grin broadens, too big for Gabriel’s face and too cruel in its excitement, as if it's been waiting, biding its time, to get them both right here and they're finally here, “I’ve done my share of digging too. Without your Sam-Sam-Sam distractions, you know? What you’d have actually done if you weren’t waist deep in the mud of your own relationship drama? I’ve got a few theories rattling around about that one. And it hurts more than you think, because dear old dad-” and as it speaks, its form shifts and warps until there is a short, squirrelly man with a beard and a tartan robe that Lucifer only vaguely recognizes from Sam’s memory. Too insignificant to recall. 

“-profits directly off of our suffering. More than any of us thought.” It takes a sip of a glass of scotch, snorts a short laughter and almost chokes on it.

“You’re kidding?”

Rhetorical. Because no, that is himself right there, and he’s not kidding. 

And Lucifer pulls the relevant memories instantly and dissects them, and Sam thrashes in his sleep because Lucifer isn’t careful, isn’t gentle, doesn’t have the patience or the composure to tread slowly or quietly or shield the human mind he’s invading like a storm from the havoc the storm is bound to wreak. 

“Not a prophet. Not on the list…” He grits out, rage flaring in his chest and his fist clenches in Sam’s hair and he slams his head back down into the bed to keep him still, “What kinda bullshit is this?”

And Lucifer laughs, shakes his head in sheer disbelief, laughs some more. Because prophets don’t come with archangel bodyguards. And the ‘Winchester gospel’ is the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. And he knows Father, he knows His twisted sense of humor, His modus operandi and the masks He'd wear. He knows how He hides, too. 

How He likes to watch. 

And then it burns. Because the man, the very human, very small, man before him- felt, looked, sounded like something sacred so utterly tainted. Sacrilege.

The thing downs the rest of its scotch and watches idly as the glass refills itself, “I’ve been sitting on…” it gestures to its form. “This, getting more pissed off by the day because _He’s on Earth_. And He’s ignoring us. Ignoring everyone. Ignoring Sam. And you should read the books, Lucifer. You don’t make an appearance until, what, the fifth?”

Lucifer stares at a perfect replica of Chuck Shurley and every window in a 5-mile radius cracks and shatters and every lightbulb blows up and every fire alarm goes off and the room drowns in pitch black save for the blinding, incinerating glow of crimson unblinking eyes. 

“Think your buddy up there knows?”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then there was plot...
> 
> Your feedback makes our week. Thank you so much for reading!


	19. Paths of Righteousness for His Name's Sake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Negotiating what you expect out of a relationship is just a little harder when the future of an entire planet is part of the equation.

Red is everything and everything is red. 

Like a slaughterhouse, like history, like the conclusive hush after a massacre time is bound to forget. Endless in its unparalleled indifference, time tends to forgive. 

Like the loud crackling rustle of burning villages, burning forests, burning books. Like desecrated bodies discarded in rivers trapped in ice and swimming face down with the stream. An incessant forward drift blazing through blizzards and deserts littered with scattered mutilated parts and shadows and nothing and Sam...

Floats, drowns, floats. 

Like open fields of roses tucked behind his ear and thorns long and vicious slithering like snakes through his hair. Ever so slowly they crown his head, collar his neck, shred his heart into ribbons and knot it like a present and it still beats. For every petal soft and wet and carefully plucked, shoved down his throat because he loves him and he loves him not, Sam chokes on velvet, he tastes copper, his cup overflows.

Red. 

Like the sun bleeding into a roaring ocean when the son of dawn looms.

Like fire and fury. Like war flaring up inside human veins and teeth tearing into arteries until they spray. The very same message scratched into paint on plain walls in abandoned buildings in demolished towns in empty universes orbiting a thousand dying stars. 

Sam growls a vacant muted no, bruises his knuckles and his soul, breaks nails and bones and promises and digs into ruby stones, steel, ice. He fights.

Red.

Like sin and seduction. Like seething, scorching, starving, wanting. The tugging pull of an eternity not too long past and the gravity of infinities to come when the devil sees fit to give and if the devil sees fit to take away. Futility too full and too filling drip, drip, dripping into Sam’s eyes and pooling like a bloodbath between his legs and Sam…

Floats, drowns, floats.

\----

Sam wakes up with a start drenched in sweat and the remnants of nightmares. He’s jerking up so suddenly and scrambling to get on his feet too fast, driven by a primal flight response finally given grounds to unleash itself. The abrupt motion proves detrimental to his throbbing head and his vision goes white. He staggers back, reaches with his hand blindly to grip on the nearest surface for support. His fist curls around a cushioned curve, something padded and enclosed in harsh fabric. He falls backwards into it, feels it sink under his weight, notices just now how his feet are tangled in a thin wool blanket, that there’s a small hard pillow poking into his side. 

He panics, struggles to blink the blur away. 

“What’s…”

The light doesn’t assault his eyes when he squints, but there’s a distinctive salty breeze to the air along with the soft rhythmic noise of nearby waves and Sam is not confused. Sam is fucking terrified. 

“Give yourself a minute, Sammy. You’re alright.”

Lucifer isn’t too close, speaking from somewhere several feet behind him. He sounds perfectly calm but there’s an impatient commanding edge to his tone Sam recognizes by experience. He obeys on instinct, gives himself a minute, breathes. 

He’s on a couch. Colors are slowly coming back now. But before visual inputs settle into anything decipherable Sam sniffs and he knows. There’s a body of water some thirty yards away. He’s not in his hospital room. His t-shirt is soaked and a persistent chill that isn’t Lucifer is making his skin rise in goosebumps and he’s too dizzy, too disoriented to do anything other than grab for the blanket and wrap it around himself and fucking shudder through the dawning realization. 

He said yes. He hears the flutter of pages turning. He said yes. He can see wood-panelled walls and a dusty fireplace and a large threadbare carpet right beneath his feet. He said yes. There’s a small glassless open window on his far right and there’s blue and sand and sea outside and… he said yes. 

“This isn’t real.”

He stares down at his own hands, his gaze is numb and a little too dismissive. He doesn’t focus on his surroundings. It doesn’t matter. His voice rings low and sure to his own ears and he’s hyperaware of the placement of his tongue dry and heavy in his mouth and something in his chest is clenched too tight but he can barely feel it. He can barely feel anything. 

“Are we inside my head?”

Sam’s not sure why he’s asking because he knows it to be true. He said yes. 

“Lucifer, are you…?”

He pulls up now, shuffles to kneel up on the couch and look behind it. Lucifer is sitting cross-legged on another carpet in the far corner of what is most definitely a cottage of his own making and he has three-four books open and scattered around him, one in his lap he hasn’t yet taken his eyes off of. 

And Lucifer doesn’t, keeps flipping the pages absentmindedly, “What, inside you?” His tone suggests it was such an odd question to ask, like he doesn’t have time for this shit, “Don’t insult me, Sam. If i were inside you, you’d know it.”

But he’s too distracted to actually sound offended. Sam thinks he shouldn’t believe him but he does. The buzz of grace is far away and out of reach. Sam’s blood isn’t humming songs of union and oneness and glory and all the crap his soul hasn’t stopped aching for since the first yes and onwards and forever. 

“But we’re…”

“Not inside your head either. This is real.”

Sam’s gaze swivels back to the window and he stares at the waves dumbly. His throat clicks as he swallows, suddenly too parched and his thoughts are as slow-forming and disjointed as his lost words, “I’m thirsty.”

Lucifer leans back against the wall and points with one finger to a door on the left. He doesn’t lift his eyes once. His voice remains monotone and disengaged, “There’s a kitchen and running water. Make yourself at home.”

Sam starts laughing like a maniac, like a loose nerve just snapped and he’s finally online now. Loud and restless and too bewildered to be scared. He lets the blanket drop off of him and he jumps off the couch and rounds it. Stands right in the middle of the cottage and raises his arms in the air and his head pops left and right in utter fucking disbelief. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you? What is this… an abduction? Where are we?”

Lucifer looks up. Always the same expression when Sam is too angry to cower in the corner, like he finds the display adorable. He lays the book aside and straightens his shoulders, “This isn’t an abduction, Sam. We both need a change of scenery and we need to talk somewhere safe and without interruptions. Go get yourself a glass of water and take a shower or something. You stink. And then we’ll talk.”

Sam notices the sigils just then. Lines upon lines of them. Horizontal right below the ceiling. Vertical on each side of the front door. Some he knows, Enochian, old, protection. Some he couldn’t recognize at all. 

There’s a framed picture of an elderly couple and three children on a shelf stacked with a few books and several small figurines. He’s just noticing how lived-in the cottage is now too. The coat and a couple of scarves on a coat rack. A pair of old boots next to the welcome mat. A nearly finished bottle of what looks like brandy on the coffee table right by the rocking chair. 

His face pales. Lucifer follows his frantic gaze and looks supremely bored. 

“Didn’t kill anyone.” He mutters casually and holds up three fingers to the side of his face, “Scout’s honor.”

“I don’t know what this is.” Sam croaks, realizing mid-sentence that he’s so unbearably tired and every muscle is too tense and his head is pounding with a dull ever-present ache seemingly worsening with every interrupted half-thought and every unanswered question and the hundred different ways Sam is actively looking for an escape route while simultaneously resigning himself to whatever that may come because when could he ever escape? When was running away ever an option?

Lucifer eyes him neutrally for a second, then his face softens a tad, “I told you what this is, Sam. We need fresh air, quiet, something pretty to look at. It’s all beige and too… depressing in the hospital. And frankly, baby, being cooped up isn’t doing either of us any favors. So, there. You’re gonna take a deep breath. I’m gonna run you a bath. We’ll relax a little. Have lunch on the porch. Talk about what matters. Watch the sunset. And then I’ll fly us both back to our respective prisons.”

Sam blinks and almost hyperventilates on the spot, “You… You’re- huh, really? Fucking seriously, Lucifer? You think I can just take a deep breath and relax ar- around you?” He shakes his head, cheeks flushed with indignation and claustrophobia and his eyes stunned and wet and his voice hoarse and barely there, “You held me down while I was getting my fucking eyes gouged out.”

Lucifer arches an eyebrow, looks genuinely surprised, “I didn’t hold you down, Sammy. I only  _ held  _ you. For emotional support? You were already holding yourself down.”

Sam huffs breathlessly and his hands snap up to curl in his hair. He stares around the unfamiliar space wildly like the walls would just close in on him and crush him if he moves an inch out of place, “I swear to god sometimes- sometimes I think it’s really you. That it’s all some big fucking game and I never left. Never… left.”

The waves crash against the shore outside. They’ve made an ocean before, made so much more and it looked just as real. There was no way he could tell really. He could never tell. And his life has been nothing but the same old patterns of terrible and beautiful, the same alterations and endless loops of mind-altering agony and then healing, kindness, love. It’s been the same. Everything is the same. He’s perhaps just a little more entertaining now because he’s going insane and he can’t tell. Because he says the occasional no like he means it. Because he’d gotten too pathetic and too boring and Lucifer just needed a new routine, a change of pace. 

Panic grips him and twists him and squirms inside his lungs and guts and Sam would let it consume him if he didn’t know where that leaves him too: crying and begging on his knees and useless, useless, never spared him anything. 

“Did we ever get out? Are we out? Am I out?”

Lucifer is silent, face pensive and hands clasped together in the gap between his thighs. Everything is static for a long uneasy minute. And then Lucifer is up and on his bare feet and he’s narrowing the space between them in three measured steps. 

Sam’s entire being is vibrating as the devil crowds in. 

“Lucifer-”

“What’s the one thing we didn’t have in the cage and we couldn’t make, Sam?”

A cold hand lands on Sam’s neck, seizes his chin and keeps their eyes locked together. Sam sees the ocean in the pale blues fixed on him and for some reason it’s oddly calming. His shoulders slump just a little. He wonders why he still loves him with such devastating tenderness. Why the resentment and the horror and the shame operated on separate grounds, rose and ebbed and fluctuated but wouldn’t come anywhere near the vast and breathtaking gap in his heart that wanted nothing more than Lucifer’s affection, to give him just as much and so much more, bask in their proximity and their history and the easy fluent understanding only they can share.

“Sam?”

“Souls.” Sam whispers, shivers, “We couldn’t make souls.”

Lucifer nods, “And if I take you outside now and grab a random stranger of your choice and let you touch their soul right then and there, would that be proof enough?”

Sam has a fleeting awareness of a kind of privilege that makes his stomach turn, makes him sick with guilt. He shakes his head too quickly, “You can’t do that.”

“Can’t?”

“Shouldn’t.”

Lucifer’s grin is playful, soft, “Or what?”

“Or this is over.” 

And perhaps Sam didn’t think this one through. Didn’t think at all. Blurted the words like this was the only certainty he could hold on to. The one card he holds. His one and only weapon. 

But he doesn’t retract it, now that it’s out and real and hanging in the air between them like an unsigned contract. Sam doesn’t take it back. 

His lips part in honest astonishment though, startled by his own daring. There’s a string of  _ sorry please I didn’t mean it please  _ stuck at the back of his throat and he swallows it down and he doesn’t once look away. 

Lucifer, on the other hand, looks dangerously amused, fond. His fingers dig cold and sharp into Sam’s cheeks, squeeze around his chin and pull him in for a brief kiss that sucks him fucking dry for one glorious second and then its over. 

...and he’s hands off and, “Deal.”

Sam stumbles back, struggles to keep his balance. His face is the epitome of stupid, “What?”

Lucifer intones, “What you just heard. No human souls or blood on my hands. If that’s your one condition, I’m game.”

This is a trick, a trap, an offer with an agenda. Sam should really learn his lesson. Should stop bargaining with the devil. Shouldn’t feel this hurricane of raw screeching need whirling in his chest and demanding he believes him, give him a chance, give  _ us  _ a chance. 

“And in return?” Sam’s bottom lip is trembling. He’s freezing again and he thinks his legs might fail him. He knows what he’s gonna hear and every fabric of his soul is ready for the momentary burst of hope to crash and burn and-

“You.” Lucifer says it, simple.

“So you want a yes?”

He laughs, long and happy, and Sam is instantly reminded of entire months of just this. Lucifer’s easy fluid joy. The breaks in millenia of on and off misery where Sam would think they’ve made it. That they’d found peace and forgiveness. Could build a town or a skyscraper or a tropical paradise and just settle in. Explore and create and talk about everything, make love everywhere, spill Sam’s blood with kindness, see light and be light and be brilliant and powerful and overwhelming, overwhelmed, together.

Lucifer ruffles his hair like he’s being so fucking endearing and he grabs his hand and steers them both into the kitchen. He runs tap water and fills Sam a glass, hands it to him unceremoniously and leans back against the counter. 

Sam stares into olive-green wallpapers and doesn’t so much as touch his water. Knows when the silence is left to simmer for maximum effect.

“No, baby, just you.” Lucifer tells him, eventually, “Already got a very coerced yes and I didn’t take it now, did I?”

Sam drags the nearest chair and lowers himself down to sit. His heart beats obnoxiously loud and his hands punch and unpunch in his lap, his nerves on fire. Somewhere in the jagged corners of his soul, he just wants to take this at face value, count it a win, be grateful, be relieved. But he knows better. 

“And other than teaching me the hard way that you can so easily take it, that you’re so goddamn generous you haven’t already, why don’t you, Lucifer? Why don’t you want it? I don’t understand.”

And Sam addresses the elephant in the room because he wants all cards on the table, “Because of your deal with Death?”

Lucifer doesn’t blink, “You underestimate me so terribly, Sammy, it’s almost hurtful.”

“I wouldn’t be so ludicrous.”

“Well then you know that, all due respect to Death and the extended family, I’ve bound him before. If I want him out of the picture, I’ll find a way. But I don’t. We’ve something good going on and I’m currently in the business of making friends.”

Sam at least believes this to be true. If Lucifer didn’t want to play nice, he wouldn’t. Lucifer would do whatever the fuck he wants and it’s what he wants that’s driving Sam up the wall. 

_ What does he want? _

Fingertips skate along the marble countertop and Lucifer gestures to the still full glass in Sam’s hand with his head, “Drink your water.”

Sam drinks. 

“I don’t want your yes, Sammy, because, quite honestly, and sentimentalities aside, I don’t need it. I’m ten times more powerful than anything presently roaming the planet or will be roaming the planet in the near future. Disregard those who don’t exactly roam as much as passively watch,” Lucifer points up vaguely, shrugs, “My brother is in the cage. And when, if, he makes it out too, I’m pretty sure the apocalypse is off the table. Certain revelations have recently come to my attention and I genuinely believe we should both direct our energy elsewhere. I have enough time on my hands to work out a solution for a permanent vessel that isn’t, well, you. And most importantly?” He pauses, his eyes glint with something hungry and wanting, his tongue pops over the curve of a small smile, “I love you. I want you in my corner. I have no reason or urgent need to force you into anything you’re not ready for or don’t truly want. We’ve all the time in the world to figure our shit out, together. Reach an arrangement that works for both of us, makes you happy, makes me happy. I want that.”

Sam wants to curl in a corner and bawl his eyes out but he can’t manage to shed a single fucking tear. Heat rises in his throat and remains trapped there, accumulates and piles up and solidifies itself until it’s a boulder on his chest and it’s suffocating him. 

“I don’t bond easily, Sam.”

And Sam knows this, knows the devil’s history all too well, has seen and felt and hurt with him. Cried with him. Knows when melancholy twists his face and he’s grieving love turned resentment, wrought betrayals and rejection and alienation, Father and brothers and the times before, too. 

Empathy is a bottomless pit and if Sam falls, he won’t come out whole. 

He keeps his eyes on the floor. They sting for wetness that won’t come. It hurts so much Sam thinks he might die. 

“Know what’s really, really, sad?” He whispers, watches his toes curl against cold tiles, “I want this. I want this more than anything. I want to believe you. I want to forgive you. I want to make you happy, make me happy, fix this, fix us. But I-” His voice wavers, strangled, forced out with gut-wrenching effort, “I don’t know how. I wish I could, Lucifer- I wish I could. I wish you didn’t just sit there watching me scream my lungs out just to prove a point. I wish you didn’t just snatch me from my hospital bed to wherever the hell we are now where no one, huh, where no one would find me? I wish I could believe it when you say you’d change, that you’d do it for me, that you won’t drop this new year resolution the second you’re too bored or something doesn’t go your way or there’s an ‘urgent need.’ God, Lucifer, I wish… but I don’t trust you. I don’t- I don’t trust you.”

He can feel Lucifer’s gaze on him and it burns. He doesn’t look up, terrified of what he might find, doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to see frustration, or disappointment, or anger. Most of all he doesn’t want to see pain. When Lucifer is wounded and cruelty itches itself on his face, hardens him, sharpens his claws and becomes him. And then he’s cold and blank and calculated. Hurt, hurtful. Pays the damage back in kind. Doubles and triples it, refines it, perfects it. 

“How does it bode for you-” Lucifer sounds defensive, his aggression rippling, a hiss, a hint, “How does it bode for this planet, humanity in general, to tell me that even when I try- even when I try really fucking hard, I’m bound to fail anyway?”

Sam scrubs his palm over his forehead. The headache is terrible. 

“Is this a threat? Are you holding your peace hostage with the release condition being… me?”

Lucifer chuckles. It’s sharp, piercing, offended, “If I thought for a second that the only reason you’d choose to be with me is out of, uh, some deluded sense of obligation, as some sort of grand sacrifice to save the world, believe me, buddy, we’ll be having an entirely different conversation. But you know it just as much as I know it. You just said it. You want this. You want me. I can feel your soul _ aching _ for me. So not a threat, no. I shouldn’t need to blackmail you into the happy ending you're denying yourself on principle, Sam.”

He clears his throat, his tone takes a downward curve, softer on the edges, calmer, “Let’s look at it this way. I don’t spend every minute of every day slaughtering pigs and eating them. But when I feel like it, I do. If I need to, I would. I don’t have any moral qualms about it. Now comes you with your vegetarianism. Your animal rights banners. Your little human heart breaks for every pig I even look at wrong. Say we’re together, say I care for your heart enough to spare you the conflict, say I’m willing to compromise. The pigs are safe. My life isn’t significantly worse for it. You’re happy. Everyone wins.”

Sam nods and slips his eyes shut, gets it, finishes his thought for him, “Otherwise you don’t exactly have a reason to abstain.”

“You’re a reason, Sam. It’s not your responsibility, it shouldn’t be your responsibility. You owe them nothing. But if this is what you need to let yourself be happy, I’m willing to give it to you, make your choice easier, painless, spare you the moral dilemma. And, Sammy- I never said I’ll ‘change.’ I am what I am. I’ll take you as you are. We’ll compromise as we go, middle grounds, meet halfway.”

Sam hunches his shoulders and buries his face in his open palms. He doesn't say anything, can't navigate his way in his own mind. The inside of his head feels like sludge and he's chasing the thread of his last argument but it's just... gone. He's not sure why he's still shaking, why he’s fighting tooth and nail to stand his ground when the devil creeps in soft and smooth and infiltrates his defences one by one, reasonable, astute, persistent, like an invasion, like biological warfare.

Lucifer only plays to win. But that doesn’t mean he’s not genuinely trying. 

His honesty is as unapologetic as always. Sam finds a familiar comfort in that. In the truths he doesn’t want to hear but are told plain and simple anyway. 

Lucifer won’t change. But he’ll compromise. Will expect the same in return. 

But he doesn’t seem to expect an answer, doesn’t push for one, doesn’t interrupt the tense silence. Sam’s trains of thought are almost too loud. He doesn’t interrupt those either.

At some point Sam peeks up between splayed fingers covering most of his face. His eyes are red-rimmed and exhausted, and his voice is raspy, wet. Like he’s been crying for hours except he didn’t make a sound.

“Where are we, Lucifer?”

Lucifer purses his lips for a second. Countries and borders mean nothing to him. He answers the question like they shouldn’t to Sam either, “Mm, Croatia. Outside is the Adriatic Sea.”

“We’re in Europe?” 

“I suppose. Right on the Dalmation coast.”

“Saw a post card for here once,” Sam murmurs, hands dropping to fold on the table, body slumping in his chair further, “Uh, Dubrovnik, I think. Looked too vibrant to be real, almost.” 

“You’ve built better,” Lucifer croons, his grace hums. It’s not meant to flatter. He sounds proud. “This one is Hvar; the scenery is lovely enough. I’d like to take you to Split one day though. A lot of history, a lot of lore. I think you’d love it.” 

Sam thinks he loves him so much he can’t fucking bear it. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concrit is welcome. Feedback makes our week. Thank you so much for reading!


	20. Thy Rod and Thy Staff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rules of cohabitation, old and new.

At some point Sam makes his way to a somewhat spacious sun-lit bathroom with a rustic easy on the eye feel to it and a large high window that does jack squat for Sam’s rippling claustrophobia. 

It’s clean, spotless, but there are still those telltale signs of habitation in every corner. A wrinkled towel in the hamper, two toothbrushes in a cup on the sink. A single orchid, healthy and well-maintained, in a cute hand-colored pot too cheerful for the space it’s almost ridiculous. 

Sam feels like an intruder on someone else’s life, like he’s staining the walls and the floors and the very air with his presence, with the company he brings along with him. He wonders briefly if those little domestic details are left right there for him to find. Clues to collect to weave a background story with a spoiled conclusion. If it’s a casual reminder of sorts, intentional, purposeful: _this isn’t ours but we can take it._

Sam is used to being tested. Or maybe he’s overthinking this. He avoids the mirror anyway. 

The bathtub is quite massive and already three-quarters full. 

“The water?” Sam asks tentatively before he can get himself to step any closer, just to manage his expectations. 

Temperatures are tricky to maneuver when both sides of the spectrum can more often than not trigger an instant downward spiral into sheer animal panic or a full-blown dissociative episode, whichever comes first.

Lucifer gives him an understanding, accommodating nod. Slouched against the frame of an open door with arms crossed over his chest and eyes trained on Sam as if he was something to study, to evaluate, “Lukewarm,” he says. 

And Sam doesn’t want to feel grateful but he does. Doesn’t want to mistake the mere lack of abuse for kindness, but he does. 

“Yeah, thank you.”

Lucifer offers a small tight-lipped smile and doesn’t flaunt the benevolence, dismisses it like it shouldn’t necessitate acknowledgment. Humble. Sam knows he’s meant to be grateful for that, too. 

He bunches his hands in the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it up and off of him. He doesn’t expect privacy, and, in all fairness, he doesn’t demand any. 

Still, though, as he bares himself with practiced precision, every move slow and automatic, his skin glistens with cold sweat and self-consciousness. He almost anticipates seeing certain scars Lucifer would let linger back in the day. There aren’t any. He looks different. He knows he looks different. Lucifer tells him. 

“Your hair is longer.”

“That uh, tends to happen when you don’t get it cut, yeah.”

“I like it. Your shoulders are broader, more defined. I like that too. Lost a lot of weight now though, haven’t we?”

“The past few months have been-”

“I know,” Lucifer laments like it objectively saddens him, takes a few leisurely steps forward. 

And Sam is suddenly so very still. He’s clutching at his discarded clothes with one hand and pinching ruthlessly at his naked thigh with the other because he can handle conversation, he thinks he can handle Lucifer across the room, can find his words and breathe through them when rage or love, both raw and blinding, fill him up and course through his veins and he’s a person with life-force and drive and an identity and a voice. 

Sam can’t fucking handle it when the devil looks at him like he’s a thing to appraise, to mark, to claim. Lucifer’s unfinished project in the flesh. Not when he crowds in close enough to touch, too close for Sam to exist outside his force-field or his orbit or as an independent entity separate from hands and grace and sound waves and pure matter creeping into him and engulfing everything he calls his own from within.

The reaction is too familiar and Lucifer pretends sympathy except he’s too pleased to wear the expression right, “Sam, you don’t have to freeze every time I-”

“No, no, no, you hurt me when I move away, you hurt me when-”

“I won’t hurt you,” Lucifer promises, voice all soft and placating as if Sam were a child and the monster under his bed was just a bad dream. He curls his fingers around Sam’s hand and gently steers it away from Sam’s thigh. He brings it up to his lips and kisses Sam’s open palm fondly, entwines their fingers together and squeezes their joint hands to his own chest, “Stop hurting yourself.”

Regardless, the tenderness is not a charade. Sam can tell when crushed ice melts through and seeps into his skin and coats his heart with all kinds of warmth when he’s still shivering head to toe because the devil is holding back. Lucifer is not out for blood, he’s not intently overwhelming, he’s not terribly cold. And in all ways the penetration still chills him to the bone, Sam recognizes the shift. Knows Lucifer’s savior mode and he knows his savior moods. Nothing like honest fucking kindness to make Sam’s very soul ache and pray for some fantastical vision of far-fetched salvation.

“Don’t know how to stop,” Sam chokes out and it sounds like a plea. His voice is nauseatingly pitiful to his own ears and, hell, he doesn’t care if he’s clawing bruises into his own skin because not half a day ago he was full-on mutilating himself and that’s apparently what he does with his spare time now. But he can’t stop hurting. He can’t stop wanting and he can’t stop punishing himself for it. 

And Lucifer’s face pinches for a split second, and then it relaxes again, “Well, you let me handle that. Now, bath, before the water is too cold.” 

But that’s not a solution and Sam knows it. Lucifer plastering bandages on wounds he carved himself is not a solution. Sam acknowledges the fact with resigned heaviness that makes his shoulders drop. He’s going round and round in circles bluffing himself into thinking there’s healing at the end of a thousand-mile road he hasn’t even started walking yet. 

Another open-mouthed kiss on white knuckles and then Lucifer lets go of his hand. Sam hands him his piled clothes out of habit and stumbles to the bathtub because at least that is an attainable destination. 

Auto-pilot, again. He slips one foot in the water, and then the other. Lowers himself down into fluid room temperature and the smooth porcelain that contains it. 

“All good?”

Sam mumbles a noncommittal, “Mhmm.”

Lucifer nods and very casually drops Sam’s clothes in the hamper as if this was their fucking house and they could just do laundry right after dinner. 

Sam doesn’t comment because it’s exhausting to care. He sinks further into the water and throws his head back and stares up at the arched wooden ceiling, pretends they can actually do laundry right after dinner.

“What are the sigils for?”

Lucifer wouldn’t waste an opportunity for a pop quiz if his life depends on it. He leans back against the sink and thumbs at his bottom lip, gaze laser-focused and expectant, “You know at least half of them, Sammy. The ones you know, what are they for?”

Sam slips his eyes shut and breathes slowly, slowly, “By the door, the line on the left to keep angels out, but sort of like an invitation-only situation. Um, non-hostile ‘approved’ angels can get in. So I suppose that’s for you. So the other sigils don’t hurt you.”

“Aha, and the line on the right?”

“Range of protection, entirely quarantines the area. There’s a line at the top I’m not sure I remember well,” And Sam has this careful concentration on his face, brow creased lightly, chest rising and falling soft and steady, “If I’m translating right, I think it allows you to know if anyone comes close. Something like an alarm system.”

Lucifer offers calmly, “Customizable too. I can specify a particular entity, or several, and be instantly notified if they approach.”

“Might need to borrow that,” Sam attempts at a bad joke and huffs an approximation of a mirthless chuckle. 

Lucifer indulges him, seems to find it a lot funnier than it has any right to be, “Baby, if you need me to call before I drop by, I could always just do that and save you the effort.”

Sam bites on the inside of his cheek and imagines Lucifer with a cellphone and actually laughs. Low and tired and grim. But he laughs, “...and the rest?”

“Well, you’ve seen through my eyes, Sammy. If I’m looking for someone and they have the aforementioned sigils lining the walls of their hideout. I might not be able to get to them. But I’d be able to do what?”

Sam runs wet hands through his hair and keeps them there at the back of his head, “Uh, see them. You’ll still find them. Might just circle the area and wait them out.”

“Right. So strong warding should suffice, no? Hide the spot entirely off the map. But let’s assume whoever we’d like some privacy from has much better vision than mine but no interest in any confrontations. What would be our status then?”

Sam sits up abruptly and his head snaps to Lucifer. He scrubs a hand over his face, blinks, “Uh… They wouldn’t come anywhere near us, so we wouldn’t know if they’re even after us. They’d find us, make no contact, just look in, just watch.”

Lucifer prods, “Exactly. And what are we to do about that?”

“Find a way to cloak our hideout. So even if they can see it, they can’t see into it.”

“They can see into it. What then?”

Sam sucks his lower lips through his teeth and tilts his head inquisitively, “Um, distort their vision? No, that wouldn’t work if the other sigils haven’t- hmm, disrupt the signal, generally? If we can’t do anything about what they can see, we can do something about what we can project.”

Lucifer’s grin is broad and proud; his praise flows, purrs, “Right on the money, baby. The lines on the ceiling? On the porch? In corners you can’t see? Should distort our energy transmission well enough so that, uh, whatever gets sent out into the ether is indecipherable. Or at least I hope it will be. It’s very complex, pretty experimental at this point.”

Sam is silent for a long minute. The ghost of a smile is hovering over the corners of his lips and is too unsure to land. He inhales deeply and draws his knees to his chest. The water is growing colder by the second but it’s nice. It’s the nicest he has felt in a long while and he lets his ever-tense muscles enjoy it while it lasts. 

“You don’t want G- your father to see.” Sam whispers, soft. 

Lucifer’s expression flattens momentarily and then he’s turning to face the mirror. His shoulders are stiff and he shrugs them dismissively. His voice is too neutral, stoic “I don’t want anyone to see.”

Sam doubts this ‘anyone’ includes Death because Death has already seen the worst of it and still thought it a good idea to send the devil his way. 

But Sam is not any more or any less scared. Sure, no one can find him here but when did ‘here’ ever matter where Lucifer is concerned? And sure, highest security protocols should alarm him a little when there’s an actual archangel in the premises, but Lucifer is always obsessively prepared when he wants to be, and Sam can just chalk it up to justified paranoia and save his questions for later, lie down and just be for now. 

He does. He leans back in the bath and stares blankly at Lucifer’s reflection in the mirror. They lock eyes and the contact lingers. A sort of fragile serenity envelopes the room and Sam thinks he might actually relax enough to doze off for a few minutes. 

“How do you feel about this vessel?” Lucifer asks then, brushes a finger-pad over the side of his cheek where the skin is starting to crack there too. 

“It looks like he’s in pain. He’s still alive?”

“No.” Lucifer doesn’t dwell on the matter and Sam doesn’t probe, “I know it’s mostly how you’ve known me, but I don’t think it’ll last much longer. If you’d rather I keep it, hm, I’ll have to explore my options.”

Extremely domestic it’s rather hilarious. As if he was speaking of a suit or an old pair of shoes he doesn't exactly want to give away but is getting too worn out anyway. 

Sam searches Nick’s face and wonders if a new one would change anything. If different hands, eyes, voice, entirely unfamiliar skin, would make him flinch less, would make his heart clench less. He decides it doesn’t matter because-

_I miss your face, behind the vessel, all of you, everything you are._

And Sam doesn’t actually say it. But the yearning is as shameless as it is loud and the words resonate between his parted lips, ink themselves on his traitorous chest, and echo in pristine silence too wistful and too unabashed Sam might as well have screamed them. 

Lucifer’s mirror image doesn’t blink.

“Didn’t-,” Sam can’t seem to stop trembling once he started and he’s not sure if it’s the water or the memory, “Lucifer, please- didn’t mean to pray that. I didn’t- I can’t- can’t control when-”

“When your soul calls for me. No, you can’t.” 

Lucifer shifts to angle himself fully towards Sam. He doesn’t inch any closer but Sam can still almost see it lurking behind his eyes, blinding and deafening and unequivocally, unbearably beautiful. The mellow tune of an ancient melody and brilliance too stunning Sam forgets how to breathe. 

“You’ll burn. You know if I drop the vessel now, you’ll burn.”

Lucifer keeps it contained, guarded. Just a hint of his light is dazzling. He presses his lips into a straight thin line and the minute, barely-there, twitch at the corner is unapologetically proud, rightfully gratified. He’s flexing and unflexing his fingers to the violent rhythm of Sam’s thundering heart and he’s waiting, waiting. 

The air sizzles with something old and predatory toppling on the precipice of self-control. 

And Sam can’t bear to look. Sam can’t bear to look away.

“You want me to tell you just how much I don’t care, that I want to see you anyway.”

The tinge of affection in Lucifer’s long and unflinching gaze is disarming, “Do you want to see me anyway?”

_Always..._

Sam grips at the edge of the tub with both hands and for the life of him he can’t snuff the devastating urge to self-destruct at Lucifer’s feet because the devil doesn’t know how else to be loved. Because Sam is expected to love him above and beyond any measure of self-preservation and, when there’s a chance to prove it, Sam is expected to prove it. 

This is another 'yes' Sam has to swallow down before it swallows him whole. 

“Do you want to burn me anyway?”

Sam doesn’t pretend the answer is anything but old news. He knows what he’s going to hear and perhaps he needs to hear it. That he still has something to prove. That he’s still meant to disregard his own wellbeing in favor of quelling Lucifer’s never-ending doubts. That Lucifer is a black hole and however much love is caught in his gravity will never, ever, suffice.

Lucifer inclines his head and narrows his eyes, a shadow of the hunger simmering within finds its way out and makes his jaw clench, “Do I want to burn you anyway? Just like that, no reason? No, Sam, not today.”

He creeps closer, sharp, alert. His lopsided smile is calculated, dangerous, “This was a trick question. What do you want me to say, Sam?”

Sam internally counts to ten and then he decides to play with fire and come what may, “I want you to admit it. That you need to hurt me and you need me to ask for it.“

“I wouldn’t say ‘need.’”

“No, Lucifer. _Need_. There isn’t a version of us that doesn’t end in me begging you to burn me alive just to show you how much I love you. If I’m not tearing myself into pieces at your altar, then I don’t love you enough. You wouldn’t understand or believe or accept anything less.”

“So what? Addictions. We all have them. You have your savior complex. You think you owe this sad excuse of a species something for, what, merely existing? Being what you are? If you’re not constantly scapegoating yourself for the unworthy, then you’re not ‘good’ enough? Well, you have your self-sacrificial crap. I have my abandonment issues.”

Sam parts his lips to say something but Lucifer isn’t done.

“You think your little quirks don’t directly, actively, hurt me? Your savior complex is why you threw us back in the cage. Your savior complex is why I’m denying myself what’s rightfully mine. Your savior complex is why you won’t let yourself be, let us be. And guess what? I’m not complaining about what you did to me, what you’re doing to me, 24/7. I’m accommodating you and what you are. So what are you blaming me for, Sam? A craving I didn’t act on and barely expressed?”

And then he is crouching right by the tub, right in front of Sam, eyes at the same level and hands right on top of his. His voice is ice and the water is getting too fucking cold. 

“Hear this if this is what you need to hear. Do I want to watch you burn for me? ...generally, I don’t mind. In all honesty, considering the current context, I’ll find it pretty sweet. Do I want you suffering for me just to cater to my vanity? Unnecessary, sure, but I'll most definitely like it. Do I have any qualms about hurting you if it’s something I can heal with a flick of my fingers? Absolutely not. Do I need to hurt you? No. Do I want to hurt you? Yes. Does it endlessly amuse me how so very well-trained you still are, Sam? How every cell that makes you still remembers me, bends for me? Oh, it does, it does. Do I find your little freak-outs and your trauma responses a little entertaining-”

Sam wants to rip his heart out and pierce his eardrums with searing hot skewers so he doesn’t have to hear this anymore. He makes a jerky frantic attempt to thrash away but Lucifer is keeping his hands practically immobile. He struggles, he kicks, the water splashes. 

“Don’t- Lucifer, don’t, please please, don’t-”

Lucifer blinks a single warning and Sam stills anyway. 

“You’re pretending we’re just getting to know each other, Sammy. You know me, buddy. You know I like it. You know why I like it. The same reason I like watching a sunflower bloom. Why do I like watching a sunflower bloom, baby?”

Sam shakes his head hectically and the moisture in his eyes, in his throat, are slipping out and if he’s not ugly-crying his heart out yet, he’s just about to. 

“Hurts, hurts, please!”

“You wanted honesty, hm? We’re not stopping now. Tell me.”

“Because it’s beautiful. It’s- it’s open and alive. You pour time and effort and lo-love into it and it grows for you. Strains for you. Follows your light- sorry, I’m ssorry.”

“And when you suffer for me?”

“When I suffer for you, I’m beautiful, gorgeous, radiant. I’m real and honest and open for you. You're inside me and you're my everything and I'm giving you my everything. There's nothing else, no one else, just you and me and I’m yours and we're one."

“And I’ll ever let you die?”

“No, Lucifer, no, you won’t-”

“And I always build you right back up?”

“Always.”

“Better than new?”

“Better, better, please-”

Lucifer regards him impassively until the distress, and the point, soak in. And then he pulls up and shifts to sit on the edge of the tub, leans back against the wall. He shuffles a very pliable Sam towards him and takes Sam’s head on his thigh and he cards his fingers through damp hair and his tone softens, quiter, kinder. 

“I won’t force It, Sam. Just like I won’t force you to say yes. Would I like it if you ask for it, if you want to give it? You know I would. I would just fucking love it. This isn't news.”

Sam glares at the orchid in the far corner through a blur of tears, as if it’s somehow standing there all colors and jubilance just to taunt him. His skin is still itching, his rasping voice is profoundly mournful, “That’s the happy ending I’m denying myself. That’s how you _love_ me, Lucifer. That’s how you’ll always love me.”

Lucifer chuckles a little. It’s patient, patronizing, “I love you in a hundred thousand ways and you wouldn’t understand half of them. Your pain, your willingness to endure for me, that’s just one thing, Sammy. I want everything that you are and everything you have to offer and I want you to want to offer it. Because I deserve it and you’re mine. I want to give you my everything just as much. Because you deserve it and you're mine. I don’t want sacrifices, kiddo. It means nothing to me if you’re doing it because you have to. I won’t take anything from you that isn’t freely given.”

“How is that not just the cage but with… with extra steps?”

“What’s so difficult to understand, Sam? I want what I want. I said I won’t take what isn’t freely given. I won’t coerce you. I won’t trick you. I won’t hold anything over your head. I can govern my actions and I can only be judged by them. But I’ll not shut down my feelings or sugarcoat what I am. You wanted honesty. I’m giving you honesty. I’m not very good with abstract mercy. I think you already know that.”

“I've given up on mercy three thousand years ago. I want- I want to feel safe.”

“You’ve never been safer, baby. Even now, even like this. I could snap your neck or choke the life out of you and it’ll still be more safety than anything the world could ever give you.”

Sam doesn’t even attempt to reason with that. It’s a flat statement that claims truth by the mere virtue of being uttered. Lucifer’s word is scripture. It’s self-evident, it’s self-fulfilling. But that’s when Sam knows Lucifer is tired, too. When he’s not putting effort into being persuasive and things are because they just are, because he said so. 

Except he also believes every fucking word he says. 

Sam cranes his neck and looks up at him, “What if I never offer it? What if I never ask for it? What if I never give you everything?”

Lucifer scratches at Sam’s scalp lightly, “We have all the time in the world.”

And Sam's chest wheezes and his mouth twists into a sickly smile, broad and false and just a little hysterical, “And there’s no outlasting you.”

“Mhm. What do you need for your hair, for, uh, skin? I don’t think I’ve dug into anyone for self-care routines before.”

Sam blinks, twice, then he keeps his eyes shut. The sudden deviation is not that surprising. Lucifer was done with this conversation the second he finished his own monologue. A muscle in Sam’s leg won’t stop twitching. 

“Ah, there’s a lavender field nearby. Would you like that, buddy?”

Sam is still a little hung up on ‘self-care routines.’ Thinks it’s the funniest thing Lucifer has said in a millennium. 'Funny' makes him want to scream.

“Shampoo, soap bar, maybe a razor,” Sam huffs erratically, too aggressive for the subject matter. Somehow, because he needs to fucking breathe, he manages to drain himself of any coherent thoughts in any shape or form more complex than whether Lucifer would seriously summon these from an actual grocery store. 

It’s another second before Lucifer is dangling a bottle of some hair-care product in front of Sam’s eyes. Sam can’t read the label or recognize the brand; the picture stamped on the front features a guy with ridiculously shiny waves and the kind of heroic determination that should positively save lives. 

“This works?”

It smells nice when Lucifer snaps it open. 

“It works.”

And then fingers curl in Sam’s hair and Lucifer forces his head back, gentle, playful, “Wash your hair, with _shampoo,_ like in the movies? We can try that.”

Sam can’t pinpoint one feeling and name it and stick to it for more than a moment before it’s entirely another. It’s pure fucking resentment and then it’s familiarity. It’s infinite boundless intimacy and then it’s terror, survival, a fretful restless sort of helplessness that makes his limbs jolt, makes his heart jump. Sam savors every kind touch and detests it; his body arches into it and then it tenses, and then it’s on fire. And sometimes the fire is tempting. Sometimes the water, cold and inviting, is rising up to take him, fold around him, drag him down where it's dark and quiet and final. When it’s too much, sometimes Sam wants it to. 

Lucifer massages his scalp with such tenderness it’s maddening. 

“Lucifer-”

“Hm?”

“Drown me?”

Sam looks up slowly, direct and clear-eyed. His throat is bare and so are his teeth. His gaze is steadfast and unafraid and there isn’t a smidge of need there. And Lucifer stares down, arches an eyebrow. He’s so caught off guard it’s almost gratifying.

And Sam laughs. It’s too dry, disconcerting in how it never reaches his eyes, “For me. This isn’t about you. This isn’t about what you’d like to watch. Drown me-” and he's not asking, “Drown me until I’m out, until there's nothing, and then do it again and again and again until I tell you to stop.” 

Lucifer looks utterly baffled for a brief second, and then he looks absolutely enamored. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, we love discussing stuff with you more than anything. Thank you so much for reading!


	21. Beside the Still Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Power is given and taken and expressed in many different ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This chapter includes several mentions of suicidal thoughts and it's the usual unhealthy mess so please be warned!

There’s a pregnant pause in space-time and if Sam blinks, he won’t be here and it won’t be now. And so he doesn’t, because he is here and it is now and as wonted as the prelude of quiet may be, as vehemently familiar as the anticipation in the pit of his stomach may coil, as much as it is the same, it isn’t. 

Sam needs the constant reminder because the only way he’d allow himself any measure of relief here is to sustain the recognition that he shouldn’t seek it or find it here. It’s as if this acknowledgment is something that anchors him, and he’d give himself leeways, let himself stray, accept certain comforts he’s offered or ones he has outright asked for, as long as he’ll still snap like a rubber band right back to the stable grounds of _shouldn’t, can’t, won’t_. 

What did the hallucination call it? Token resistance?

But Sam would be the self-aware addict if he can’t be anything else. He’d shoot up the poison and smoke his three packs a day and inhale the toxic fumes coating everything he’s ever allowed to touch, and if his drug of no-choice is shoved down his throat anyway, Sam would swallow it, but he wouldn’t pretend it’s not killing him at the end of the day. 

This is temporary, he tells himself. Because he hasn’t had a moment to make saving himself a priority yet. Because sometimes he thinks he doesn’t need to save himself; he just needs to cope and adapt and make the best out of an eternally bad situation when this has been the only version of survival at his disposal for so, so long he can’t tell if other options are automatically disregarded due to the certainty of their inevitable failure, or because he simply forgot they exist. 

All things considered, Sam’s already retreating into somewhere numb and empty where demanding more of the same comes as naturally as the thoughtless urgency of muscle memory. He doesn’t want the illusion of peace or an interim of freedom right at the tip of his fingers but never close enough to fully grasp. He doesn’t want the intimacy or the bliss that would so often intertwine with the fleeting embrace of not-quite death. He wants nothing. He wants oblivion. 

And that, too, makes it different. Because while Lucifer never denied him this particular escape route, never said ‘no’ to drowning and Sam is banking on it a little too sure, there’s no real or imagined scenario where Lucifer likes him numb. 

An open palm nestles itself in the crook of Sam’s neck and Lucifer is tracing a thumb along the curve of Sam’s shoulder blade, up and down in a half circle, and if the touch is persistently gentle, it’s also as volatile as everything the entity behind borrowed human skin can unapologetically be. 

Sam doesn’t wonder why Lucifer isn’t doing it already. He doesn’t. He knows Lucifer’s penchant for making him wait. His patience ever so polished and terrible when he knows exactly how much time he has on his hands, and how much of it he’s willing to weaponize.

_We have all the time in the world._

Sam presses his cheek to rough denim and rests, breathes, listless. There’s a moment where it feels simple, to just be, to just wait, to hollow himself out for all the nothing to come. The water is still. It’s waiting dutifully too. 

Lucifer’s fingers drift to curl around his clavicle. His grip is loose, wet and slick with shampoo, merely there for the tactile input it provides in abundance. He makes a humming noise that reminds Sam so viscerally of the devil’s careful deliberation when he’d scan the tattered remains of his true vessel, always with such fond admiration, picking and choosing which piece of flesh, which bone, which organ, to tear or break or remove next. And then-

Swiftly, softly, he nudges Sam forward in the bathtub, slips a bare foot into the water and then another, lowers his otherwise fully clothed body to slide behind Sam and spreads his legs on either side of Sam to bracket him in between. 

Sam is a little too stiff and a little too slow. He still reaches for the edge of the tub to clutch at it in a half-calculated attempt to brace himself before that quest for leverage is adamantly abandoned and he decides to just lean back against Lucifer’s chest like he's expected to. 

Sam is naked and cold and all too vulnerable. The almost oppressive proximity in such a confined space should have been terrifying. But Sam doesn’t flinch, doesn’t wince. A level of skin-on-skin contact was always in the cards with drowning, with everything really. Sam wouldn’t let the hundred alarm bells ringing faintly in the background dent his religiously maintained shield of detachment. 

And Lucifer drapes an arm around his waist, stays a good few inches away from his dick. His other hand is dipping fingers into the water, twirling them aimlessly in Sam’s direct field of vision. The rippling effect is damn near hypnotizing. 

“We’ll have to make a little adjustment, first.” Lucifer whispers eventually, words mouthed slowly against Sam’s hair and instantly populating the empty corners of his mind with distant music, “I wanted to do this at some point, anyway. But since you’ve just given me an opening, I suppose it’s as good a time as any.”

“What are you talking about?” 

Sam’s utter lack of interest in whatever the answer to his question shall be is plabable. His impatience is sharp and testy, like he can’t stand the prospect of deviating off course now or the fucking sound of his own voice. 

“I’m talking about preventive measures, kiddo. The things that go behind the scenes and you’re too antsy to shut down and float to even consider. All the reason to pause a second and do this right.” 

“Prevent- what? Spare me the riddles, Lucifer. Pretty goddamn please.”

Lucifer lowers his head to plant a kiss on Sam’s temple, featherlight and affectionate. He doesn’t say anything, takes Sam’s hand in his and presses the pad of his thumb into the middle of the palm where the months-old scar still is. It doesn’t hurt at all because it’s not meant to hurt. He marks the point as center and draws an invisible circle around it. And then Sam is losing track of the next several lines being zigzagged across the circle or spiraling in and out of it.

Sam stares down at the odd patterns with which Lucifer is stroking his hand and furrows his brows in mild confusion. And then a realization hits him, drains the colors out of his face. 

“What are you- no, no!” 

“Shush. Just a moment.”

It’s fascinating how easily, how so absolutely, Sam’s startled out of his brief reprieve. Whatever blanket of numbness he’d have clung to tooth and nail a mere minute ago, it’s shredded right before his eyes, scattering with the wind too quickly to chase after. He doesn’t know what’s happening but _something_ is happening and it takes him a lot longer than it should to translate the sudden onslaught of panic into action, to yank his hand away, or at least try to. 

Lucifer intones, enunciates, one single word, two syllables. Enochian.

“Zoh dah.”

And then it’s done. An image flashes on Sam’s hand, doesn’t stick long enough for Sam to register it. It’s gone. 

Sam blinks several times in a row, his breath catches in his throat, “What did you do?” He swallows, stunned. It was too fast. He’s not even sure it just happened. What just happened?

“Lucifer… what did you do?” He repeats, he hisses, lower this time, surprisingly peremptory for all the ways Sam is too fucking tired of watching his every attempt, small and tragically insignificant as it may be, to steer his own wheel be ripped away from him, taken and morphed into just another violation Lucifer would so casually pretend is something Sam just asked for. 

“Nothing we haven’t already agreed on,” Lucifer offers calmly, still conversational, “This is a Sumerian seal I’ve tweaked a little just for you. The original is arcane binding magic meant to infuse soul and body until they’re inseparable beyond the limits of biology and physiological death. Your heart stops, your brain waves fade out, your body is gone cold and lifeless? Well, your soul remains stuck in the vessel. It never makes it to the veil. No reapers, no passing on. No zombie bullshit either. This is serious ‘locked in your body while it rots’ old-world sort of curse, but…”

He rubs Sam’s arm soothingly because the latter is trembling and right on the verge of hyperventilating and is curling in on himself and drawing his knees to his chest and his chest is making those faint wheezing stuttering noises and Lucifer chews on the mirth in his voice because it really isn’t that terrifying. 

“But I said I’ve tweaked it, right? Now it doesn’t keep your soul stuck so much as tethered to your body. With some, uh, spiritual guidance, it’s exactly what we did in the lake. Your soul in the astral realm, strung to your body, no Heaven, no Hell.”

Sam is too horrified to find his words, “I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t-”

“Hey, hey, buddy? Sammy? You’re overreacting. This is nothing. You asked for ‘void,’ didn’t you? Turns out void is a little tricky when death is more than just a concept here. You know I can’t let you die. And if I leave you out a tad longer than recommended while we indulge your little suicide fantasy, or, if, god-forbid, you ever decide to indulge it yourself in my absence, I’ll have to go fetch you from the veil, or go looking for you up or downstairs. And you know I will, Sam. You know I’ll always bring you back either way. But I’d really prefer the emergency shortcut, keep you close, eliminate all margins of error, save myself the mileage and all. Just being practical here. No big deal.”

Lucifer wraps an arm around him and shifts him a little so Sam is more a crumpled shivering heap between his legs, with Sam’s shoulder, rather than his back, against Lucifer’s chest. Better for eye-contact when Sam is already curling too fucking small like he can’t bear the very space he’s occupying. And Sam hugs his knees tighter, face scrunched up with all kinds of all too familiar terror, tries to minimize the surface area Lucifer can touch, every inch of skin Lucifer can etch his name into and the thousand flavors of fresh horror Lucifer can inflict on a whim and justify it ever so casually because 'it’s no big deal.' Everything Sam doesn’t know how to escape fitted so perfectly around his every edge like a fucking glove. 

“This… is this- is this permanent?”

Lucifer’s tone gives way to the kind of unconditional affection a parent would admonish their at-fault but well-meaning child with, “What you mean to ask is, if it’s reversible. Yes, Sammy, I can undo it. But see, baby, this is exactly the kind of question that makes me think this was ultimately necessary. Those are trying times, Sam. And as you so well know, I can’t exactly spread my wings and fly dad’s green earth to be by your side every minute of every day. I can’t afford you doing something rash in a moment of misguided heroism or panic. I can’t afford losing you to your day-to-day occupational hazards. And if I’m going to let you do your own thing, because I want you doing your own thing, I want that for you, it would give me some peace of mind to know I can at least keep your soul safe and within arm’s reach. Heaven and Hell are too much family drama I’d rather not stir right now. You know the drill.”

“You’re not keeping my soul safe; you’re keeping me trapped. You don’t know how else to keep me, Lucifer. You think I’m a suicide risk because everything you say and do makes me want to tear my skin open and crawl the hell out of it, makes me so claustrophobic I can’t fucking breathe, and your first thought is to strap me tighter to that same skin until you come home from work and we go on with our merry day like you didn’t just take every choice away from me _again_ , like you didn’t just add a fistful of nightmares to my already overflowing bawl of nightmares. Huh. Marvellous problem solving, Lucifer. Can’t wait to get myself killed on a random freak accident so I can chill inside my own decaying corpse until you bring me back to life and we can bond some more over all new types of trauma.”

This kind of heedless bravery is the monster child of having nothing to lose and finding, despite it all, that you’re still losing and losing. 

Lucifer’s huffed chuckle is just a little strained, “Call it whatever you wanna call it-”

Sam’s cheeks flush with the exertion, with the terribly overwhelming effort of putting the nameless hideous despairing things scratching at the inner walls of his mind and his heart into intelligible, comprehensible words, “I’m calling it what it is. You say you’re trying, right? You say you won’t force it, Lucifer? You say this isn’t the cage? Okay, I’ll believe you. I appreciate the sentiment. But where? Lucifer, where? You’re doing an awful job at it and you want fucking credit for every second I’m not screaming myself hoarse for mercy because that’s the one difference, no? You haven’t ripped me to pieces yet and, huh, god, thank you, thank you for that. But it’s just the same. Just the same old story. You and me and a million ways to fuck with my head until I can’t think straight anymore. Just you and me and no other choices and a locked door and terror, so much terror, I’m terrified, fucking terrified, all the time. Just you and- and- and the malleable chunk of clay you’ll mold to your liking because it has no voice, it has no say, it has no autonomy-”

The distant hint of distress that seeps into Lucifer’s expression is so utterly alien it’s unnerving. He reaches over to cradle the side of Sam’s face and Sam leans into him because he hurts too much not to seek the devil on instinct but the floodgates are open and Sam can’t seem to stop spitting his turmoil as if it’s burning acid eating away at his guts and he’s purging, purging, vomiting it all out. 

“I can’t lose myself into you again, Lucifer. I can’t color inside your lines. Can’t- can’t keep imagining Sisyphus happy to justify why I still fucking love you. You want me mindless and on a leash and at your feet? You can have that. You can have that- it’s so tragically easy, why aren’t you? But don’t pretend it’s my choice and don’t pretend it’s real. You want real? You want to try? Then try, Lucifer. Really try. I want you to try. I keep hoping you’d really try and it’s so, so fucking stupid because you’ll always be you. It’ll always be this-”

Lucifer interrupts him. The action itself sounds involuntary, impulsive in its defensive uncalculated hastiness, “This isn’t fair. I am tryi-”

But Sam is cutting him short and he’s not giving himself a second to breathe, his words scrambling all over each other and parting his lips aimless and poisonous, “No, no, no. you’re not trying. You’re just finding other ways, roundabout ways, more subtle ways, to do the exact same thing. You’re not trying and I’m not buying it and it’s not enough. I want you to know this, Lucifer. It’s not enough. It’s not working. And one day… one day even loving you won’t be enough. You’ll drain that out of me too. So unless you’re planning to sear it into me again, to drop the false courtesies and the carrots and grab the stick off the shelf instead until I’m parroting whatever you want to hear and there’s nothing left for you to take, that will be it. You won’t have this. You won’t have me. You won’t have anything real or anyone real because you’d have destroyed everything real irrevocably like you’ve always done with everything you’ve ever been given. And then it’s just you and your delusions and _ash_. And I swear to your fucking father, Lucifer, I swear to you, it will happen. I’ll bleed myself dry every day until you’re out of my system and it will happen. I’ll find a way to loathe you because you don’t deserve to be lov-”

Sam stops. Swallows the word. The cruelty lodges in his throat like a barbed foreign object tearing his blasphemous vocal cords into tiny guilty shreds and dragging them right to the gallows. His heart keens.

Lucifer’s expression is blank and inscrutable. His eyes bounce off Sam and wander away. His gaze fixates on a spot on the opposite wall where the midday sun has sneaked in, painted honey-toned patterns of warmth on dark wooden panels and lingered, made itself at home.

The devil is so, so cold it’s devastating. 

Something snaps and Sam dissociates. Just like that. 

He watches himself watch Lucifer watching as droplets of water cluster into ice crystals and those are clustering too. He watches himself bury his face in the crook of Lucifer’s neck and weep with such hysterical grief it’s almost ceremonial. His teeth chatter against the frigid air and he’s choking on his tears and he’s pale and white and blue and the fluidity that engulfs him hardens ever so gradually, freezing, freezing him to the bones, and he hears himself stammer in Lucifer’s old tongue, right into the frost on the collar of Lucifer’s shirt-

“Let me, let me, lemme w-warm us up. Lucifer, please-”

Lucifer turns to look at him in slow motion. Just as vacant. He blinks. It’s not a no.

Sam watches his own chest rise and fall with every labored shuddering breath, watches his own fingers twitch just barely as he stares into nearly frozen waters and everything stills. 

Moment after moment after moment of the kind of nothing Sam wanted to drown in except he’s realizing just now with sudden, vile clarity that it was never ‘nothing’ that he wanted. 

He wanted agency. He wants agency. A block of ice cracks outwards when he stretches his hand forward.

Lucifer’s human mask is instantly springing into life. Motion and emotion and intensely invested focus warp his features and there’s no rage there, no retaliation, just a shadow of now-forgotten hurt licking at the corner of his lips before it dissolves into something akin to exhilaration. His voice is hushed, thick with fervor. 

“That’s it, kiddo. You got it. That’s it.” 

Sam sees color and heat in his own cheeks. Sees matter as it changes states, as the molecules of solid water collide faster and faster and faster and the ice melts. The water bubbles. Sam sees steam. 

“Easy, easy, Sam, slower. Not to boiling, just a little slower. There you go.”

Sam watches the water settle. Sam watches himself vibrate. 

Lucifer is all over him, peppering kisses behind his ear and running his fingers through his hair, down to his neck, along his collarbone, and then up and up again. His eyes are blown wide in genuine fascination and his praise reverberates and echoes in Sam’s head, breathless and awe-stricken and it fills Sam to the brim, snaps him right back into his body. 

“Good, good, good, beautiful, that’s it.”

“What- what? What am I doing?”

Sam’s eyes flutter rapidly as sensation returns to him in full force. The tracks of warm wetness across his utterly bewildered face are drying up now. His blood is buzzing with electricity and the water is almost too hot but it’s bearable, bearable; Sam is restless for entirely different reasons. 

Lucifer laughs, shakes his head, incredulous and so fucking pleased, “You did _this_.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” and Sam is more indignat than confused, too exhausted to play, “Is this a game?”

Lucifer purses his lips, all chipper, “Nope. Just plain thermal energy at the very tips of your fingers. Uh, well, not literally. Not how physics works. But I clearly don’t need to explain how physics works to you, Sammy. You just made physics work all by your gorgeous self.” 

“Nno, no, I didn’t. I couldn’t- how am I-”

“You couldn’t what, baby? Manipulate matter down to the atom? You’ve done it for millenia.” 

Sam stares around the room like it might just fade away the second he looks away, like the fabric of reality would crumble if he even entertains the thought. But then again his veins are thrumming with leftover power just like the good old days and it’s fucking dizzying, it’s maddening, it’s itching.

“But that was in the cage. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t- right?”

And Sam might be overwhelmed and disoriented and still clinging to doubt out of habit and sheer necessity, but he’s not really questioning his surroundings or how he just influenced them. Not when Lucifer is looking at him like he's the embodiment of sweet dreams, like he's made of stars and glowing like one. And in all the ways it makes his heart skip a beat, in all the ways it will crush it, he feels it, he knows it, he knows the answer to this question before he asks it, “How did I do this, Lucifer?”

Lucifer’s grin is more fondness than Sam can ever hope to comprehend. The ancient being within is beaming, brilliance and splendor shining through his eyes, his grace bright and breezy. Sam can feel it in his chest. Sam can feel it in his guts. Sam can feel it in his throat. It’s velvet-soft and all-encompassing. 

“You have the know-how. You have your ten-thousand hours of experience and then some. And you’re… you, Sam. You’re you. And you’re me and mine and your soul is magic. You’re a force of nature. You’re glorious. My other half.”

Sam hears himself whimper, and then he hears himself chuckle, and then the devil wraps himself around him and pulls them both down and under the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your feedback is a gift and we appreciate you guys to the moon and back. Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Happy holidays and happy new year!


	22. Through the Shadow of the Valley of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam gets exactly what he asked for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter in its entirety is in Lucifer's POV. Please keep that in mind because Lucifer wouldn't condemn himself and all the usual unhealthy/messed up stuff are right there being either romanticized or brushed off as business as usual.

The first time is gentle, not unlike the methodical tenderness of experimental firsts, in general, or the tentative nature of relearning the ropes when the object in question is a package of all that is precious and fragile, wrapped up with a plastered warning to handle with care. 

It’s offensive, a little bit, to think of Sam as breakable in any given context. Not when the kids gloves have been off for millenia and Lucifer knows exactly where, and how much, he can push. Except this might be new territory and caution might be justified. Lucifer can rationalize this much, curb the hunger when it gets a tad impatient, because if nothing else, Lucifer isn’t wasteful. Nor does he gamble with unknown variables. Not when it matters, at least.

Lucifer wonders with some fascination if that is the most glaring indication of his love: fear. 

He’s afraid. He’s afraid enough to pause and slow down and reconsider. He’s afraid enough to not go the whole nine yards when he most definitely can and quite frankly thinks he most definitely should. But it’s not failure that concerns him, or how a miscalculation can spiral things out of control in unforeseen ways…

Because it’s not Sam that is fragile. It’s love. Or at least the love of anyone who’s ever claimed to love him. And let it not be said the devil hasn’t learnt his lesson: they can stop. 

_Your father just stopped. He’d made you and known you and loved you and then He just decided to stop._

So it’s desperate, maybe, frantic, how absolutely affectionate that first time is. How strategically generous, how sincerely needy. How hesitant and how careful. And if Sam catches a whiff of vulnerability, then let him. Because he knows Lucifer in all the ways Lucifer knows him too. And Lucifer wouldn’t pretend to rise above hurt feelings or find a reason to mask or apologize for them. Not when he’d always wanted honesty, and pain is something they can deal each other in the open but it’s also something they can heal. Together. 

Lucifer isn’t usually that forgiving where matters of love and war are concerned. Sam gets the special treatment because he’s earned it. 

Because no one atones like Sam atones. And be it kindness or penance, Sam is equally frantic and twice as generous when he gives. 

For the boy with light and magic in his soul, Lucifer would celebrate the potential too, put in the work where work is needed, even when they’re both altogether caught in a bubble of hysterical bonding and a hundred hoops to jump through. 

Easy, then, Lucifer will go easy. 

With an arm slung around his shoulders, tugging him closer to Lucifer’s chest, Sam curls into him of his own volition, long limbs slowly shifting to entangle with Lucifer’s as the distance between them vanishes. There isn’t much of it to begin with, so to speak. Nor do they need any when they sink further down into the water until the world outside is a world away and every molecule of space is otherwise occupied. 

Sam holds the last breath he’s allowed and savors it. 

And then it’s cold adoring hands taking leisurely sweeping strokes across prickly skin. Or it’s dexterous fingers kneading at soft and hard edges and burying themselves in every corner that would take them. And it’s open-mouthed kisses, slow and demanding, or messy and hasty and stolen, or pressed tight lips to lips and chest to chest with clumsy unfocused attention because the only agenda is to crawl under each other’s ribcages and nestle there and weather the storm.

Sam bends and twists around him, fevered and unreservedly open. He reciprocates touch with touch, tongue with tongue, the same unrestrained heedlessness when Lucifer sucks warmth and moisture right out of his flesh like he’d devour him if he could, like licking and biting and grabbing and bruising is a middle ground and a compromise, and they’d settle for less where less is ultimately more. 

He’s so beautiful when he’s aching for it.

But it’s a minute, a minute and a half, almost two, before Sam is running on pure instinct and he’s so short on fuel he’s losing track of where and when and how, the interrupted trails of Lucifer’s fingertips and every curve and valley where he’d pause for a taste, all nerve endings firing up in tandem because it’s suddenly everywhere and it’s suddenly always. 

Sam doesn’t thrash when it starts to hurt.

When teeth graze against his lungs and his chest tightens and his ears ring and his heart thrums. And Lucifer is breathing in the twitching urgency throbbing in his veins, can almost smell it growing fainter by the second when Sam’s eyes fly open and his hands grip at Lucifer, heavy and tingling, clutch at his shirt for dear life as he forces himself to still and take it, every inch of him buzzing with the animalistic drive to wriggle free and pull up and inhale and take his fill and Sam won’t let it. Latches onto Lucifer pleadingly, instead. 

Somewhere in his wild gaze there is this acceptance, this blanket permission, this utter reliance interlaced with the kind of blind trust Lucifer has missed more than he would dare to admit. And that same old infatuation, the reverence, makes Lucifer go mad with tenderness.

And Lucifer holds him, all soft, all firm, cages him in, and he whispers right into his cotton-candy-clogged head.

_That’s my good boy._

He means every word, but he also says them because positive reinforcement does what it should. 

Because shortly after, Sam’s lips part involuntarily and water floods his deflated lungs and his face twists with primal panic and the fleeting ghosts of dizzying agony and he’s still attempting at a smile. It’s so very sweet. But the self-control is even sweeter. Because Sam stays, stays, stays, right there as he drowns. 

Until hazel-blue eyes flutter at the devil unseeing and they still pierce him. And it’s a terrible thing, mesmerizing, that one last convulsion, when his ribcage creaks and collapses around his burning lungs and biology resigns itself to the path of least resistance and all signs of vitality trickle out of him one by one, when his soul is still clinging on. 

And Lucifer rises, dripping water and fondness, shuffles the pliant body to its back and kneels up with Sam between his legs and a human soul tethered to his bare chest like a kite on a string. 

“Look at that,” he drawls as if intoxicated, to himself, mainly. Sam can’t hear him. 

The soul suspended in the soft crisp air twists itself into confused knots because something, something in that state of being is so very wrong. But it’s still so warm and still so bright and Lucifer can’t take his eyes off of its intricacies and the secrets of creation it carries within. 

It does that neat little trick with the sunlight when rays of it filter through it; it fragments them. And it’s a sight to behold when Lucifer had thought he’d seen it all. Not this. Not like this. Not when Sam’s hair floats about in unruly waves and somehow the brown strands of it invite the light and house it, absorb it, until they’re glowing almost golden, round about his face like a halo. Like an oil painting of a sunburnt world-weary patron saint in the corner of a chapel staring into the abyss like it hurts too much to look. 

It’s a ridiculous image to conjure for an archangel; worse so if he’s fallen. But where others deplore the irony, Lucifer appreciates it. He crooks a small captivated smile. 

“Look at that…” He murmurs, again. 

Sam is the avatar of Earth and the only reason he might spare it. He reminds him of forests. He’s the clean untainted lifeforce in every molecule of green. He’s the raw rich generosity in a fistful of soil. He’s the treasures beneath the surface, the hidden gems on ocean floors, the diamonds, the pearls, the rings of fire in their quiet muffled rage, too loud when the ground shakes.

Lucifer wants to grow flowers under his skin. He forgives him. 

He dips his fingers in a soul that is his and also _his,_ watches light call to light, watches it shy away. Every interwoven thread opens up for him, knows him, welcomes him. It pools around his fist and twitches, reaches...

“Makes me fucking weak in the knees, Sammy.”

He huffs like he can’t quite believe it, uncurls his fist and relishes it at the tips of his fingers. The peaceful pulse of it against his grace, the brilliance, the familiarity. His imprint still right there and he can trace it, every mark he’d left, every path he’d forged. It’s his in all the ways that count. It’s Sam’s in all the ways that matter. His entire being swells with compulsive yearning. 

...and when his thumb and middle finger collide and he snaps, he shoves it right back where it belongs. 

Sam emerges out of the water with an abrupt jerk and a distorted wet scream that makes his grace sing. 

It’s lovely, that too, because Lucifer can see it. How pain erupts hot and fierce in Sam’s chest and behind his eyelids. How it pumps color into him as life claims him, circulates within him in rivers of blood running once again like they never stopped. Flushed cheeks, rosy lips, itchy limbs. How he doubles over when his stomach clenches and he vomits the excess water and claws at Lucifer’s neck because his legs are trapped beneath him and his lungs are still half full with liquid and he’s trying to spit it all out and simultaneously suck all the oxygen in and he gasps for air, shakes, quivers, coughs his throat raw. 

Lucifer could have made the resurrection easier but then he’d have missed on _this_. 

“Take your time. I got you. There you go, baby. Welcome back.”

Sam slumps forward and into Lucifer’s chest and breathes in loud, wheezing pants. It takes him a minute to resettle in his own flesh, to reacquaint himself with his motor and cognitive faculties and another minute to talk himself into using either. 

“Did I…?”

“Die? Technically. How did it feel?”

Sam can’t lift his head up and he doesn’t try, “Hh-hazy.”

“And?”

“Painless, in between, out- out of my body, so quiet and empty at first and I was scared-” And Sam shudders with the weight of his words, tears springing to his eyes and spilling with a single blink. He sniffles, voice raspy and entirely overwhelmed. There’s a hint of undiluted relief there in the heart of tribulation. It’s where Sam finds his truths and it’s where he’ll later bury them. He groans, unfiltered and honest, “And then you, I felt you, and it was good. It was good. It was home. It was wonderful.”

And Lucifer stares down at him and smoothes the hair off of his face, strokes his cheek indulgently, “And what do we say, Sam?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now take a deep breath for me because we’re going down again...”

But then the second time, and the third and the fourth and the fifth and so on and so forth are not so gentle. 

Time is a flat circle. Death is a landmark on the scenic route to eternal recurrence. It’s the tail of a snake that eats its own tail. Sam reincarnates into his body a hundred times and then one. He’s beautiful. He’s infinite. 

He asked for this. Lucifer gives it. 

And in the moments in between, when the soul takes hold of its vessel, when it’s not seeping in and it’s not seeping out, Sam is alive with feral vigor. He exists so absolutely it’s charming. All the parts of him, biology and mechanics, awareness, energy, blood and flesh, a choir of survival and overcoming. Nothing can touch him. Ancient laws of nature can’t dent him. He’s transcendent. 

When the devil levitates above his chosen and tests him, rips the life out of him and then slams it right back in, brutal in how he wrenches and brutal in how he shoves, suspends it somewhere half in his body and half in the ether and watches him writhe, reckless now with a new toy when all its methods are tried and true, Sam takes the cruelty like it’s his to take. He doesn’t want oxygen, he doesn’t want rest, he doesn’t want lenience; he’s above them all and he’s exactly where he belongs and he shall not want. 

Lucifer massages his cock slowly, slowly, and then faster. Strokes and fists and milks it, rinse and repeat until Sam is nauseous with excruciating bliss and overstimulation and he’s convulsing like a bolt of lightning trapped in a metal jar and left to squirm. Every jolt of pleasure is inflected with vindictive intensity that means to scar. The pain is given and taken in increments, until he can’t bear the touch and Lucifer is not even close to bored with this one yet, takes pity at some point when Sam is wailing through his last orgasm like he's getting skinned alive. 

And in the moments in between the moments in between, when Sam’s head is held above the water by the hair and by the throat, and his ears are bleeding fresh because Lucifer is all true voice and it’s bristling with bloodlust and something obsessed and vicious and still famished, affectionate in all the ways it’s so very needy, Lucifer still wants the reassurance.

“Tell me.”

“W-want this-”

“Tell me,” he twists his wrist, makes the boy arch like a bow. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me,” he almost, almost pleads.

“Want this, want you, love you-”

“Tell me more.”

“Love you, I love you. I’ll always love you.”

Lucifer believes him. Even when Sam says it like it's a disease and like it's ruining him. 

\--

Every iteration is an eternity within the span of minutes. Sam is vast and endless and eternal and then he’s compressed into a fragile human body again with too many buttons to press. Made to feel too much until it’s too fucking much. 

The line between sustaining himself on offerings of ecstacy and reveling in the suffering that comes with it and simply enduring both is too blurry Sam is not sure on which side he’s crumbling. What he can vaguely tell is, he’s crumbling. He’s spent. He’s flayed physically and emotionally and his nervous system is screeching for all the feelings and sensations it can no longer translate, static electricity rumbling behind his eyes and he’s beyond coherent thoughts when he finally cries out the words. 

“No more, no more, no more!”

He expects more. He braces himself for so much more, if not for the sad attempt at begging, then for the complicity. He did ask for it.

Lucifer gives him a playful scowl and lifts both hands in the air. And then he’s pulling up and gingerly stepping out of the bathtub, shaking his head with that easy delighted chuckle, spilling satiation in his usual afterglow. 

“Fucking hell, Sammy. I expected you to tap out like three hours ago. But then you didn’t. And then I got greedy and you still didn’t. And not that I’m not incredibly proud and not that you’re not a remarkable piece of work, but… you asked me to do this until you tell me to stop, right? You remember what you asked me for, baby, don’t you?”

Sam didn’t. 

The obscene absurdity of the mere fact seems to knock a huffed exhausted laugh-sob out of Sam’s burning chest and he throws his head back against the porcelain behind him and rasps through the rising disbelief. He looks like he's a nudge away from bursting into tears for a good second there. And then the gloom fades, and he starts laughing like his entire existence is a very well-crafted joke on his expense and even he can appreciate the humor.

“I forgot- I forgot. Huh. I forgot I’m allowe- that I can say stop now… that I should say stop. I forgot. Lucifer, I guess I just forgot!”

It's a little on the nose, sure, but Lucifer can appreciate the dark comedy just as well. 

And he cocks his head with an amused tongue click. He banishes the tinge of mild irritation at the thought of getting somehow blamed for this, too. He thinks it’s pretty fucking adorable in retrospect, anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if you guys keep track of chapter titles but this whole sea-side cottage section is heavily inspired by the "The Lord Is My Shepherd" prayer and the titles are chosen accordingly, so uh, just giving casual credit to King David I guess?? 
> 
> Also, this chapter is shorter than usual because Lucifer's POV is insanely challenging to balance out but we're getting to major plot stuff soon and I thought it's due time we get some insight into Lucifer's current headspace. Let us know what you think!
> 
> Your feedback, as always, means the world! Thank you so much for reading!


	23. Surely Goodness and Mercy Shall Follow Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftercare.

Perhaps against its better judgment, Sam’s body is treating the events of the last few hours as it naturally would a highly traumatic life-or-death situation occurring concurrently with a bonding activity, a cuddling session. 

Which is to say the adrenaline crash is vicious, but so is the cocktail of oxytocin and stress hormones, the haze of endorphins and the cold burn of Lucifer’s grace. And while Sam’s neural pathways are overloaded and all his wires are crossed and the disarray of his feelings escapes translation, emotions flickering in and out of existence in the ten different ways Sam can’t comprehend the utter wrongness nestled so deep in his core programming, none of those side effects are the usual points of damage Lucifer would elect to remedy to keep a system running. 

Not when Sam’s body is no longer the mutable clone it used to be in the cage and Lucifer would liberally customize to minimize the aftermath of physical trauma. Not when his true vessel can troubleshoot itself and hunt down the errors one by one and resolve them with as little assistance on his part as deemed necessary; that resolution being a purge or a merge or an adaptation is entirely up to Sam and is how Sam remains his own person, his choices his own choices, his feelings and how he deals with them his own cross to bear.

The self is a malleable product of a very delicate balance of chemicals that Lucifer would only poke at or occasionally stir, but wouldn’t steer one way or the other, even when perfectly capable and often tempted. Lucifer wouldn’t. Sam knows it. 

And so Sam doesn’t and won’t ask for the kind of healing that demands that level of meddling with the inner workings of his mind. Lucifer doesn’t and won’t offer it. Because the devil might rearrange Sam’s insides and build himself a playground of Sam’s very internal organs and call it a regular Tuesday, but the day he starts micromanaging his brain waves is the day Sam ceases to exist in any way that counts. And if Sam is sure of anything at all, it’s that Lucifer needs him to exist. Lucifer needs it to count. 

Lucifer will always need it to count; too fucking proud to brute-force his way into a heart or a mind or a vessel when what and who he is alone should merit him an open invitation. 

This is Lucifer’s plight and the dragon he will continue to chase forevermore. His paradoxical sense of worth, both terribly inflated and ultimately wanting, and the starved need to validate it absolutely, to others and to himself in equal measures, in all the ways he expects the world to pay for the birthrights he was denied, in all the ways he expects Sam to understand and accommodate. 

Sam understands. 

Sam understands with an invasive poignant intimacy that writhes in his chest every time he has to divorce his understanding from the accompanying reflexive urge to act in line with that understanding, to soften the cutting edges of Lucifer’s doubts, when Sam still loves him despite everything, can’t help himself when faint but steadfast hope and forlorn tenderness envelope him whole and paint in vivid color all the alternative scenarios where it doesn’t have to be like this. 

Where Lucifer doesn’t have to be like this. 

Sam doesn’t say a word when Lucifer switches to another extreme as he so habitually does...

Not a word when Lucifer holds him to his chest, carries most of his weight, wraps himself so entirely around him and stands them both under a somewhat warm stream of water, for a long and thorough shower that is almost baptismal in how utterly ritualistic Lucifer makes it. How he cleanses every part of Sam, every patch of bruised or oversensitive skin, every strand of hair, every hidden corner, all with such diligence, such devotion, devout attention in every touch, rapt and reverential as if Sam is something to worship, or something to prepare for a sacrifice. 

Not a word when Sam drifts in and out of a quite dreamless state of almost-sleep, comes back to whispers of approval kissed into his ears and the scent of sea and vanilla clinging to his eyelashes and the smooth ends of his dripping hair, trickling off of him to follow the trails of Lucifer’s kindness when Sam’s body is the center of the universe and Lucifer orbits it like it’s his goddamn raison d’etre. 

Not a word when Sam kisses him back, not a word when Sam loves him back, not a word when Sam scratches at that one vein in Lucifer’s neck to rip it open and drink it dry, only to bloody his own fingernails and watch the water wash away the red as it falls, watch the devil lean into the touch to savor it, to forgive it, to humor its futility and relish the mark it shall leave. 

Sam doesn’t say a word when he scrambles out of the bathtub nauseous and stumbling, has to clutch at Lucifer for support as he hunches over the toilet and empties his fucking guts out. Or when Lucifer rubs his back through it, curls a large towel around him after and brushes his teeth for him. Or when he dries him up good and warm and nuzzles into his ten-day stubble, presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Sam’s lips and tells him,

“I like it. We’ll only trim it just a little.”

\----

Sam thinks he knows what this is. And in all honesty, Lucifer doesn’t guise it. The shameless doting, the infantilization, the fascination with the novelty of Sam’s very human, very unmoderated, physical reactions. The full glory of flesh and blood free of Hell’s abstractions, a body with a hierarchy of needs, a body that requires maintenance.

Lucifer is experimenting with a brand new and still so very interesting version of domesticity. 

And it might be the brain fog or all the natural drugs still running rampant in his system, but Sam can’t summon the energy for righteous indignation. He can only exist and breathe and breathe and breathe and let Lucifer do what he does while Sam feels what he feels. 

“How long has it been?”

Sam asks absently, suddenly, only now somehow able to hold himself upright without slouching in the chair Lucifer had practically laid him down on after a very brief fainting spell. He sounds a lot softer than he has any intention to sound, both in volume and in sentiment, voice almost dusty with the lack of use. He hasn’t said anything since…

Lucifer hums thoughtfully and tips Sam’s head back with a gentle nudge, over the backrest of the chair where it was and it should remain, “No sudden movements, baby, careful.” And the fingers curled loosely in the hair at the top of Sam’s head abandon that and drift to a spot below his cheekbone, drawing a line in the foamy sheen of shaving cream. He glances over at the high window and shrugs, “Half a day or so. Sunset in a little bit. I think we can still catch it.”

Sam keeps himself still with general ease, hands folding on the wrinkled towel in his lap as he watches Lucifer in his periphery, wiping the razorblade clean and returning it to the side of Sam’s face. He wonders idly if it’s the sheer mental fatigue or Lucifer’s near-professional level of no-nonsense concentration that is rendering any hint of fear moot, for all the ways Lucifer approaching him with a sharp object is familiar and yet presently so ridiculously bizarre. 

“You’ll take me back to the hospital after?” Sam asks, again, cautious not to imply impatience when there’s genuinely none, “-after sunset?”

“And after I feed you, yes. You don’t sound terribly anxious to get the hell out of here.” Lucifer eyes him neutrally, and then he smiles, sharp edge of the blade sweeping in a single smooth-firm stroke following the outline of Sam’s jaw, “Are you trying to spare my feelings, Sammy?”

Sam huffs a chuckle that almost gets him an accidental cut to the chin, straightens his face back quickly with an apologetic blink and draws in a deep calming breath, “Huh, it’s… not that. I’m thinking my absence most definitely hasn’t gone unnoticed, which means staff freaking out and resident doctor calling Dean and- uh, he’ll worry, unnecessarily, but he’ll worry.”

Dean wouldn’t just worry. Dean would fly off the handle. Dean would scour the earth for breadcrumbs and find nothing, and then he’ll scour some more. And Sam thinks of not just breaking the news of Lucifer being out and free and very much right fucking here, but to have to tell Dean that his psychotic brother was just right there with him, in a honeymoon vacation spot, negotiating terms of engagement and getting a spa-freaking-treatment on the house. 

And Sam shouldn’t let the raging shame and the awful, awful guilt at the mere thought proclaim themselves so openly. Shouldn’t give Lucifer that ‘in.’ Except it’s already done and Sam can’t take it back. Can only shield himself against whichever way Lucifer would take it and weaponize it, hold it over Sam’s head when Sam should have known better than to even invoke the name.

But Lucifer doesn’t, apparently committed to the good cop routine or simply saving this one for later use. His shoulders lift slightly, and then slack, tip of his tongue flicking out to wet the curve of a lopsided grin, “As much as I don’t enjoy being your dirty little secret, nor do I like the tormented need all over your face to explain yourself to him, there is no reason to agonize about any of this just yet.” 

He pauses a moment just to build up the anticipation and look very pleased with himself. Always the showman when introducing an all-new and unpredictable magic trick, “We’ll get back to the hospital a minute after we left it.”

And Sam is always a captive audience. 

It still takes him two long seconds to sift through the bewilderment and fully grasp the drastic nature of exactly how that can be achieved. And his eyes might have widened a little in the process; his breath might have hitched a little too, not so much shocked as he is indiscreetly, apprehensively curious, “So you’re gonna… what- uh, reverse time? Rewind it?”

Not that any of this is objectively particularly surprising. The incident with Balthazar and the Titanic was a lot more for a lot less. Sam shouldn’t really need the not-so-gentle reminder of just how unnervingly alien the being in the human skin beside him is and will always be. How the world bends to the will of his kind when they will it, and how recklessly they will it. 

Sam lets himself slump into his chair and acknowledge it, for the thousandth time because it bears repeating: nothing about this is human or normal or domestic. Nothing about Lucifer is. No matter the face he wears or how skillfully he wears it, the archangel beneath it is light and power and whimsy, above natural law and beyond comprehension. And he can and he does and he will. And Sam would be hard-pressed to ever again forget it. 

“Lucifer, wouldn’t the Fates be-” he attempts to reason, or perhaps to understand, decides to change course midway because the thought of Lucifer giving a single flying fuck about the Fates or the consequences of his own actions is laughable, “You told me before, in your own words: this is risky at best, world-shattering at worst.”

But Lucifer is over whatever little thrill the revelation gave him and is back to the task at hand. Cleans the shaving cream off Sam’s cheek with the hem of the towel wrapped around Sam’s shoulders, ever so casual and seemingly unconcerned. The nonchalance in his voice sets Sam’s teeth on edge, “I’m not going to reverse time to erase what you think is currently happening in the hospital right now, Sam. I don’t need to. It’s never going to happen.” And he shifts the razorblade so it’s facing away, strokes below Sam’s ear with the back of his hand, “I’m surprised you haven’t noticed how we’ve left the hospital early morning in, um, America, and arrived here early morning in, what’s-its-name, Croatia. When, considering two different continents and time zones and how I flew us here in mere seconds and all, we really couldn’t have possibly caught the sun of the same day, no?”

He tilts his head expectantly. The detached amusement is just a little condescending. 

Sam knows the overarching shadow of disappointment when he sees it, lowers his gaze on instinct. Understanding lands on him immediately and his cheeks flush with the crippling sense of inadequacy that follows right after. He blurts the words out in panicked haste, “We’re not in the present. You’ve already brought us back in time. Not forward, no, you brought us here knowing this house will be empty today. This is yesterday or- no, no, farther back. It’s- it’s so obvious. Even the seasons are different, I should have- I didn’t, I’m sorry. Didn’t think-”

And Sam might be abjectly frustrated with himself for failing some invisible test he was supposed to somehow detect and pass much sooner, but as it is now, he’s detecting something else just as well: this isn’t merely an over-the-top solution for the garden-variety problem that is Sam’s hospital situation or the trouble his sudden disappearance would stir. This is Lucifer hiding him, hiding them, in every way he knows how. This is Lucifer putting not just miles and miles and lines of sigils between them and a certain unidentifiable threat, but also months (years?) of distance. 

Something raw and terrified coils in Sam’s stomach and crawls up his spine and stays.

Lucifer snorts, friendly as can be, waves his free hand dismissively, “In your defence, I did keep you pretty distracted. But anyway, no worries, inconsequential time travel. Empty lot this time of the week. We haven’t interacted with anyone or affected anything outside those four walls, hm? Will get you back to the hospital and the present as if we’ve never even left. That good enough for you, buddy?”

Honeymoon vacation spot in the fucking past. Dean wouldn’t just fly off the handle. Dean would fucking lose it. 

\----

They eventually move to the wooden-framed front porch right in time for sunset. 

And Sam hasn’t been outside in a week but it feels like an eternity ago, if not for the continuous nightmare his life has recently become again, then for the memories of eternities past being shoved into him in a single endless moment, a rundown of the cage sticking to his skin like hot glue.

Sam attempts to venture forward towards the sea the second he sees it, gets pulled back by the arm and Lucifer shakes his head that, “No.”

It’s because of the warding and the sigils’ spatial limits. Lucifer shows him the threshold (porch steps, no farther) and explains that he didn’t get the opportunity to cover more area, sounds genuinely sorry he didn’t, promises to do better next time. Sam says nothing. 

They end up sitting cross-legged side by side on the floor, Sam with the wool blanket draped loosely around his arms, his hospital clothes miraculously clean and dry now, fabric too thin for the chill of almost-night. Beside him lies a half-finished restaurant-packaged box of local pastries Sam can’t name, filled with spinach and cottage cheese with prunes and figs on the side. And before them, a myriad of colors stretches vast and infinite, the openness so very inviting in all the ways they aren’t invited, soft and fragile, almost close enough to touch. 

Sam is warm and fed and clean and is coddled like a fucking child and spoiled rotten he can barely breathe. And now he’s staring at something beautiful that makes his heart ache, can feel the persistent tug of Lucifer’s grace dragging him in, letting him in, keeping him in. It doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t feel bad. It doesn’t feel real. 

Lucifer’s face aglow with a hint of orange and warmth, the quiet longing itched to the turbulent blue in his distant gaze when Sam looks at him and sees the same old confinement, just like before. A hundred thousand sunsets they’ve watched together down below; none of them was real, and Lucifer loved them all just the same. 

Sam is tired of mourning and so he doesn’t. 

“Will you tell me what year it is?” 

And the answer to this question offers absolutely nothing, changes nothing, Sam knows. But he’s been obsessively looking for clues left and right and the extended horizon offers none. The area is secluded, vacant aside from the tyre tracks of a truck on the sand and another hut in the far east, what seems like a marketplace or a citycenter a lot farther behind that. And judging by the framed picture inside alone, Sam thinks it’s at least the 90s. He’s not sure why he wouldn’t let it go. 

Lucifer smacks his lips with fond faux frustration, doesn’t take his eyes off of the parting sun, “You know, Sam. I’ve always found your compulsive need to measure time and ground yourself in it a little hilarious. What does it matter? 2005? 2000? 1994? Who cares. You’re older than the Mayan calendar. I’m older than this entire solar system. Time is irrelevant. Get with the program, baby.”

And then he turns to look at Sam, his wistful expression from a minute before melting into something more spirited, something invested and demanding. He takes Sam’s hand in his, splays Sam’s palm open and drops a tiny black metal cube there, “Speaking of the program, reshape this for me.”

Sam stills. Freezes. The sudden distress is tangible. 

“I don’t know how.”

“You do. You know exactly how. Show me.”

Sam knows how to breathe. Sam knows how to ride a bike. Sam knows how to load a gun and shoot to kill. Sam knows how to exorcize a demon and how to behead a vampire and how to run and how to fight and how to track a monster and subdue him. Sam usually knows how to save a life. And Sam knows how to bend and reshape matter. Sam knows how. 

He stares at the solid object in his hands, its mass, its weight, its texture, its angles. Sam stares at it and he sees it. He brushes the tips of his fingers against it, feels it, feels its composition, its particles tightly packed and unmovable. He sees the miniscule spaces between them, regardless, imagines how they’d expand when the metal melts, how fast, how wide, how hot. 

He presses a finger-pad against one edge and smoothes it. And then another, and another, and another. Twelve. He hands Lucifer a tiny black metal sphere. 

Lucifer sucks his lower lip through his teeth, smile too broad, unblinking, inhuman, pure unfiltered archangel peering behind the translucent curtains of his eyes, “Be still, my heart.” 

And Sam looks dazed, feels dazed, not sure if the world is spinning or if he is. His heart is too loud and the sea is too loud and the sun has fared them well and soon there will be stars when the sky clears. He’s not sure he wants to be here. He’s not sure he feels right in his skin. 

Too tight, too tight, too closed in. 

“Now, Sammy, while this is pretty fucking impressive, I want you to ask the right questions so we don’t get stuck doing first-grade arts and crafts.” He tosses the sphere up and it disappears, and he cocks his head suggestively, voice slipping into a familiar instructive tone that pulls Sam’s attention in like a magnet, “What’s the first law of thermodynamics?”

“Energy cannot be created or destroyed. Can only be converted from one form to another.”

“Oh, and how did I just make that ball disappear?”

“You either sent it somewhere else with a speed my eyes can’t register or you sublimated it, vaporized it.” 

“I usually go with second. Don’t like to litter. Now ask the right question, baby.”

Sam stares at his own hands, and then at Lucifer’s, wide-eyed and chest heaving, “How did you create it out of nothing?”

And then there’s raw energy between Lucifer’s fingers. Sam feels the charge of it, the power, sees molecules of matter immigrating in slow motion from every direction to rotate fast and fast and faster above Lucifer’s palm. 

Lucifer catches his awed gaze and maintains the contact, “We can’t create something out of nothing. I didn’t. I simply gathered the elements from the environment around me, syphoned energy from an energy source, followed the recipe, let it cook.”

There’s another sphere in his hand now. Sam saw its parts connect and merge. Saw it being made, molecule by molecule. 

“But… what you created in the cage, what I created; Lucifer, there was nothing. No environment. No source of energy. We had nothing.”

Lucifer wrinkles his nose, another twinkle in his eyes even as he plays at being gravely offended, “We had me. Everything was me. From me. The air, the gravity, water, fire, stars. I was the environment and the source and I gave you free access to pull from me. I’m a million nuclear power plants, Sam.”

And Sam wants to see him again, wants to burn in his light and feel it, take it all in and be one with it. Can feel the itch at the back of his neck, the denial, the old and ever-present withdrawal. He nods and physically inches away, rides the hurricane of tremors with masochistic, admirable, resolve, "You never told me...”

Lucifer remains on topic, pretends not to notice, “We never really got that technical. But now we’re here, outside, and you have everything you need around you. Renewable sources, natural, artificial. Every ingredient and every component. There’s nothing strictly magical about any of this. It’s alchemy, knowledge, control, practice. Everything that can be done with magic can be done the long hard way, hands-on, build from scratch. Though not everything you need will exist in your immediate vicinity. Some components might be miles away, a continent away, at the center of the earth or below a mountain or in space itself. The construction itself might require extraterrestrial conditions. That’s where magic comes in. Tell me, in your own words, how magic fits in the equation.”

“Um… Like, like in a computer programming language. Instead of telling a system to put one and one and one, you assign a command to those instructions. How the plus sign translates to "add," a shortcut. An incantation or a sigil in this case. Saves time, conserves energy, a catalyst to trigger a reaction instead of triggering it yourself.”

But Sam is also beaming with an odd sense of exhilaration, buzzing with it. The nerves are gone, the fog is gone, a sort of childish wonder sweeping the exhaustion away and settling in its stead. And that ancient recognition of privilege, that Sam shouldn’t know this, shouldn’t see this, that he’s being let in on a cosmic secret he has no right to uncover. But he is. He is learning, seeing, exploring. The clarity is mesmerizing. 

Lucifer’s waves of approval submerge him. 

“I want to teach you everything. I want you to try everything. But it’s going to be a little harder here because I can't give you a universe on easy-mode. I mean, I can, but I shouldn't. And if I'll teach you how to drive, we're gonna go with a manual car first. And then you can take automatic on your own.”

Sam glances up at the full moon and reminds himself that it’s real. He doesn’t know what to do with that simple fact yet. He doesn’t know how to maneuver himself around its sharp edges. But sometimes he wants to. Sometimes he wants to with a feverish insatiable hunger. He doesn’t know what to do with that either. 

“I wanna see you thrive, kiddo. I wanna give you everything.”

“Lucifer," and suddenly Sam can't be here a second longer. Chock-full of raging want and he's almost, almost tempted and it fucking terrfies him, "Can we go back now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is (probably) the last chapter in this arc. On forward, more characters and more plot should be introduced. 
> 
> Your feedback means so much to us and we absolutely love discussing the shit out of this universe with you. Thank you so much for reading!


	24. For Thou Art with Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer uses his words.

“Before we go-”

And Lucifer wrenches his fervent gaze from the sky and back to Sam, expression all but reluctant for a moment longer, before it morphs into the all-business reserved resignation he would recently wear when what he has to do is decidedly not what he’d rather do. Lucifer putting the brakes on his own carefree indulgence is still something Sam notes with wonder. It’s like watching a difficult child respond to a sudden interruption of their playtime, expecting a tantrum or at the very least an argument, and getting graceful compliance instead. Not just unpredictable, but straight up uncanny. 

Sam supposes he will always expect the worst and be pleasantly surprised with the bare minimum of common decency, as low as the bar is for him. 

“-I guess I should warn you that before we left the hospital, I may have accidentally broken a few windows. Nothing in the slightest bit apocalyptic though it might look like it in your room. I don’t want you freaking out on me, because this isn’t about you.” 

And Lucifer punctuates his statement with a swift shift as he pulls up to his feet, turning away from Sam and taking a few measured steps to the very edge of the porch, right before the invisible line after which the sigils’ protection is no more.

His tone, like his posture, is rigid. Neither of them welcomes the questions they so openly invite. 

“You may have broken a few windows?” Sam echoes quietly, brow furrowing as his muddled brain strains to do the simple math. 

But the bits and pieces of clues are piling up too high, and Sam might know Lucifer well enough to recognize on instinct when a particular subject is better left unbroached, but something in his chest is squirming with a half-cooked conclusion that makes his fundamentals quiver.

“When you told me that you brought us here for fresh air, I didn’t think you meant it literally. That you… you, Lucifer, needed to breathe. You’re angry, hurt-” and Sam can almost see it in his mind eye, in the way Lucifer’s shoulder blades tense, archangel wings unfurling involuntarily, defensive and overcompensating, and the scent of distress that the vessel’s body language fails to translate but Sam’s empathy does because it knows it on a personal level, all not too foreign but rare and visceral enough to strike Sam dizzy with senseless animal terror by proxy. An air of keen and sickening dread for the nameless threat that has the devil in hiding with a hundred alarm bells on his door.

The word is heavy and blashphemous on Sam’s tongue but he swallows and says it anyway, “Scared?”

Lucifer shoves his hands in his jeans’ pockets and stretches his neck. And with his back turned to Sam, his outline in the moonlight is luminous and haunting. Somehow he appears less human and more the ancient being of inconceivable dimensions he is when his usually schooled facial expressions aren’t there to play the part. The ungoverned bitterness in his voice is just as old, just as vast, and so very familiar. 

“I’m yet to find out if any of it is justified-”

Between that and the time travel to come, Lucifer openly admitting to fear gets the cake for abstract concepts Sam is deeply, unequivocally, unsettled by. 

“-but you needn’t worry your pretty head about any of this now. I lost control for a second back there. Touchy stuff for me. But it won’t happen again.”

In his relatively limited experience, Sam has only witnessed Lucifer ‘losing control’ once. With Death at the door and the devil trapped in a corner, furious and wounded and helpless, when Lucifer broke more than a few windows and took everything that ever mattered to Sam including his heart and broke those too.

And Sam would go mad with the phantom grief alone, would scream his throat bloody if he doesn’t banish the terribly vivid memory with frenzied urgency, shove it down-down-down and bury it ten feet under where it belongs, where it’s nothing more than a distorted sequence of vaguely identified horrors, inflicted on a blurry figure that isn’t Sam. A cautionary old-wives’ tale of the kind of destruction the devil would rain down when he’s vulnerable, when he doesn’t have much left to lose, and why that outcome should be avoided at all costs. 

And taking the moral of that story to heart gives way to another reflexic reaction. Sam’s genuine need to comfort him, to keep him calm, to keep him happy, all the ways Sam tried to survive when it wasn’t survival at all. And whether that need is exclusively born of having personal stakes in Lucifer’s pleasant or unpleasant moods and their respective consequences, or if it’s also partially raw compassion born of understanding and solidarity and love, it doesn’t matter. Sam can’t figure out which of his feelings is true and which is another form of surrender disguised as a coping mechanism. And say he ever manages to draw the line, what difference would it make, anyway?

He hauls himself up with some effort, forces his buckling knees to carry his weight and push him forward, close the space between them in a flash. He’s used to this, times like this when whatever Lucifer’s burden is, it’s also Sam’s. And Sam does it with less hesitation than he’d foreseen, with the intimacy of eons of companionship where he’d been as much a shoulder to cry on as he was a punching bag to vent out frustration. 

Sam does it with the weary tenderness of ingrained habits. 

He stands unsteady next to Lucifer, quiet, deferential, there in flesh and there in soul. 

The proximity is offered in lieu of an unspoken plea: _let me carry it with you._ And while the silence lingers, Sam waits for the metaphorical green light to intervene. 

Lucifer speaks first, side-glancing Sam and otherwise perfectly inanimate, “You know, I saved this little tidbit to the end of the day for this very reason. So I don’t spend all of our time together wondering if your kindness is the product of some deluded sense of obligation, handling me like the ticking time bomb I am, or if it’s… genuine.” His gaze drifts away again, and his mouth curls into a small sardonic smile that isn’t so much an accusation as it is a disheartened acknowledgement of everything Sam feels and can’t name. Lucifer exhales, “Now here we are, and I am wondering.”

Sam, despite himself, will always appreciate the transparency, even when it’s impossible to please. He repays it in kind, “We can psychoanalyze the validity of my feelings until we’re both red in the face and we’d still come out wanting. I don’t know.”

“But you know I don’t want your false kindness. I’ve never wanted false kindness, yours or whoever else’s. It’s insulting. It’s cheap. It makes me feel small.”

Sam smiles too then, a brief humorless thing, sympathetic, regardless, “Yeah, manipulation tends to make you feel that way.” And his head tilts towards Lucifer’s; he shakes it slowly, “I’m not manipulating you, Lucifer. At least not intentionally. That’s all the reassurance I can give you. It’s all the reassurance I have.” 

“You’re very difficult to read, nowadays,” Lucifer hums, in mourning, “Turbulent, like the sea.”

“My mind?”

“Yes. I get whiffs of it when you pray.”

Sam raises a brow and then he laughs, laughs with the sudden spontaneity of catching a friend in a white lie, “And you went in digging earlier. Before we came here. I felt you. I felt you all over my head.”

But Lucifer isn’t one for excuses, nor is he one for apologies, especially not when none is warranted. He purses his lips and shrugs, “Ah. That too. But then that wasn’t about you either, Sam. I didn’t look where you’d think I would look. Kept all your precious thoughts and your internal monologues safe and private, as they should be. I don’t like to cheat.”

Another clue thrown his way, Sam spots it and files it away. 

“Right. You either win fair and square or you don’t play at all.”

Lucifer pretends the implicit irony isn’t a jab at his very flexible moral code, lets it slide, too trite to address. He blinks once, deadpan, “No, Sam. I’ll play. I’ll win. Fair and square with you, sure, because you deserve it. Others don’t.”

There’s something novel here too, something uncharted, fresh with the sheer vigor of youthful grit. And yet the unwavering resolution is almost corporeal; Sam sees it shine, sees the devil shine with it. It’s a face Sam has only caught glimpses of before, never fully manifested before, never like this. It steals his breath. 

And Sam has this momentary urge to drop to his knees and vow allegiance to whatever war Lucifer would wage. Because he’ll win. Of course he’ll win. Except Sam is all too aware of how corrupted this sense of loyalty is, how anecdotal. Another poisonous fruit of yet another poisonous tree. Another monster to slaughter before it eats him up and takes the whole world with him. 

With things Sam doesn’t want to do on principle being the very same things Sam wants to do out of reflex, Sam is having a jolly good time with biased compromised choices either way. 

It’s another minute of Sam wrestling with the tangled thorns of his own feelings before Lucifer decides to make his life easier because he can, “I know your priorities, kiddo. Your priorities are lines I won’t cross. And this might be your fight too if you choose to fight it, but it’s mine first and foremost, and believe it or not, Sammy, we’re not in conflict this time around.”

Sam is a little agitated and he doesn’t deign to hide it, “Are you going to stop beating around the bush anytime today or is it all riddles and hints and I’m expected to connect the dots on my own?”

Lucifer chuckles, chest-deep and right on the edge of playful. Does the 180 degrees flip just like that, “Funny how you feel entitled to an answer when you haven’t given me a semblance of one all along. Why do you care, Sam? The little incident at the hospital, I said it won’t happen again.” And then with the same seamless fluidity, he transitions back into soft and desolate, eyes glistening with something needy and deprived, as bare as it is shameless, “Why do you care? Give me something. Give me _something_.”

Because Sam could profess his love in a hundred thousand words with half-lidded red-rimmed eyes and a burnt tongue and it wouldn't measure up to the glory of one moment of lucidity where he says it intentionally, willfully, freely. And Sam hasn't given that. Sam hasn't given a speck of that. 

Lucifer knows the difference. Even when he pretends it's all the same. 

In all their convoluted history, Sam doesn’t remember a single time where he’d held that much power over him. Where what he could give wasn’t just craved but openly pleaded for. It fills him up with a white-hot fire that burns loud and violent in his rib cage, drowns his lungs in smoke. It feels sick. It makes him sick. It makes him itch. 

“I thought my false kindness wasn’t good enough,” he whispers, restless, doesn’t know what he’s saying. He feels like an open wound and simultaneously the calloused fingers poking at it to tear it open wider. Sore and wrong and wrong and wrong. 

“Then don’t give me false, Sam. Tell me something true.”

Sam stares at his own feet and it hits him like a freight fucking train for the first time in however long it has been, in the millenia and millenia of giving and giving where it didn’t once feel like an option even when it was, that now, here, Sam can choose to give him nothing. 

It’s the monumental authority of that choice alone that frees a certain truth off its shackles, lets it out, lets it breathe. 

And Sam chooses to give because maybe, maybe, he doesn’t have to reject himself on principle to keep fighting the good fight. 

Sam is not the kid who ran away from home to chase a forbidden dream of ‘normal’ only to infect the innocent with his own nightmares and pick up the road right where he left it off. Sam is not the man who jumped, with fanatical conviction in his chest and sins to be redeemed in his blood and the absolute certainty in his heart of hearts that he deserved it, deserved to be the sacrifice, that his entire existence was something to atone for. And Sam is not the malleable construct the cage made of him, not the thing Lucifer made of him, not the ghost he made of himself when surmounting the insurmountable was the only sanity left for him.

Sam is not any of his past selves and maybe there’s reprieve in knowing it too. What he is now is what he is, and it’s all he can afford to be. And Sam doesn’t have answers and he doesn’t make conclusions. There isn’t always one. And maybe that too is okay, because Sam knows the devil and he loves him, and if that’s a weakness, it can also be a weapon. And if Sam doesn’t have to fight it, then he’ll wield it.

Because he can. 

And not a shred of Sam’s tenderness is feigned or exaggerated, not when what’s real and what’s true is also what works, is also what could work, what could count. Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

“I can feel you hurting and I want to feel it with you." He murmurs, blinks, means it, "I want to take it all away.”

Lucifer shifts to face him, expression unreservedly rapt and misty-eyed. The human mask too human and all too grateful. Overwhelmed in all the ways he’s overwhelming. Somehow it's stunning how Lucifer owns it, the emotins and how proudly he proclaims them. Sam gets only the briefest flash of it before Lucifer rests his forehead over his shoulder and just stays, still, silent. 

“What happened, Lucifer?” And Sam remains motionless as the chill of grief and something else flayed with betrayal, too raw to comprehend, seeps into him and makes itself at home. 

Sam knows what this is about. Know it with an instant vicious clarity. Recognizes this brand of suffering beyond all else. Not his, not his feelings, not his history. They feel his in every way under the sun. The pain personal, vengeful, reaching…

“This is about your father?”

Lucifer says nothing. It’s more a ‘yes’ than a yes could ever be.

“Your… your father is absent, away, dead. Why now? Why are we hiding from Him? Tell me. Please? Tell me.”

Nothing. Lucifer says nothing. And Sam is starting to tremble with a dull bone-deep ache growing sharper by the second because God is here. God is in the picture. God is watching. And Sam had prayed and prayed and prayed to a god who wouldn’t listen until there was nothing left but a faithless pit of rage and abandonment and Lucifer’s scars to share them with him.

Capital-G God. The very word reeks of heresy. After so, so long. Now He’s here? Has He always been here?

“What did you dredge up from my memories? How am I connected to your father? I don’t understand, Lucifer. I don’t.”

And Lucifer pulls back, scrubs a hand over his face and then ruffles his own hair with it, plasters the fakest ‘everything is peachy’ smile on his lips and shakes his head, “Sammy, I’ll tell you everything. I’ll tell you everything once I know what I’m dealing with. I promise. But we should go now, baby, okay? We should take you back and put a pin on my melodrama because it is neither the time nor the place. Alright?”

“We ‘shouldn’t’ anything. We practically exist outside time. Don’t- don’t get evasive, Lucifer. I’m here. I’m listening. Don’t.”

Lucifer throws a quick glance at the door of the cottage and his fingers collide for a brisk snap. Sam sees the sigils flicker.

“What are you doing?”

“Injecting the warding with a self-destruct command so it’s revoked once we’re gone.”

“Lucifer, we’re not going until-”

“Sam,” and Lucifer cradles his face with an open palm, shuts him up, so fucking affectionate it’s pouring out of him and leaving no room for useless arguments, “You might not be late for your brother but _my_ parole officer exists outside time too. So, yes, we should go. I’m going to put you to sleep now because I’ll take the bumpy route back. Okay, buddy? It won’t hurt.”

Sam’s objection dies on his parted lips.

“Try counting in your head until you’re out. Should help with the jetlag.”

And the last thing Sam feels before the curtains close is the spectral pressure of one massive wing folding around him head to toe, blocking the view of sky and sea and the small house in the middle of nowhere, until it’s cocooning him so tight and Sam’s vision goes white as he counts one, two, three… and then he’s out. 

\----

Death, simplified to the very bare-bones material, is in essence, a concept. A rule. The entropy that makes the universe spin, the final plunge, the door into a new reality, the gate between living and… well, him.

That is to say when you really look at him, underneath the assumed skin and bones and muscle, underneath the puppet he wears as a suit only out of common decency, concepts and rules aren’t very easy on the eye, no matter whether that eye be celestial or human.

Some parts of him are immutable stylistic choices he’d put in in the beginning of time. The wings, specifically; high, spreading, with the deaths of stars, supernovas shining in contrast in their blacker-than-black feathers, smooth as silk and thick as tar. Regardless, sometimes he rather liked the way humans imagined him. The skeleton, clad in black robes, shining blue light in his otherwise empty eye-sockets. He’d go with that one if he’s feeling a bit cheeky. As cheeky as a grizzled, sentimental concept could feel.

That is to say it is fluid. Often changing with emotion.

Anger, frustration, exasperation, was usually the gaping hole of a ready tomb, the shrieks of the abyss, whirling in on itself in barely contained frenzy, the costume of man he wore threatening to slip away.

It shone in his eyes as it shines now. Shines in the things that the demons and the humans in the hospital couldn’t possibly see, that would madden them into nothingness in seconds. 

That Lucifer can see. And feel. And know, sense it in the air before Death even appears in front of him, head tilted lightly to the side and hand gripping at the head of his cane with such force that it really should have shattered.

“Ten seconds. And I’ll come with you.”

Lucifer tells him, polite and as non-confrontational as can be, arms still wrapped around a sleeping Sam as he lays him down on the bed gently, tucks him in under the blanket and steps back. 

The room, barring the bed, is half-destroyed. Fire-alarm blaring outside. The noise of chaos and the feral scent of human hysteria. 

Death gives him the ten seconds with heavy charged patience, and then he’s dragging the archangel by his very grace out of the room, out of the hospital, out of the known universe, back to his realm in a blink. 

A blast of barely contained violence slams Lucifer fifty feet away from their point of landing, drops him flat on his back amidst the shattered remains of one of his green houses, the only collateral damage thus far. Though it stings. 

“You impudent little brat.” 

And Death stalks forward unhurried, doesn’t give him a chance to recover, “Not only did you circumvent me but you put yourself and Samuel and this entire timeline at risk. Do I have to tell you just how reckless that was? Just how colossally _stupid_ you’ve been, Lucifer? Explain yourself to me, and hope that whatever reasons you can scrounge up are satisfactory.” 

Lucifer jumps to his feet and gives himself a moment to curb the seething urge to fight back. Not exactly one of his strongest suits: to turn the other cheek. But he does. Hands balled into fists at his sides and wings fluttering vigorously as torn flowers whirl behind him in small tornadoes of manufactured air. 

“The timeline is fine. Sammy and myself are more than fine. We're better than ever. I was neither stupid nor reckless, Death.”

As it stands right then, popping into the past- or future, Death isn’t sure which, isn’t sure where, and finding a nice little isolated spot without impacting anything, without stepping on a butterfly, as it were… didn’t matter. It is the principle of the thing. The fact that Death couldn’t find him. Couldn’t trace his grace signature or Samuel’s carbon footprint. 

The absurdity of how, for a minute there, they’d vanished off of time and space for almost a day. And it could have been far worse. 

In all honesty, Death is a little baffled Lucifer did bring them both back after all. If he had to predict, he'd have predicted them well and truly gone. A hostage situation that would have been very challenging to navigate. 

“Start talking, Lucifer. The power surge that _I_ felt, deep as I was in my own library, before you grabbed the boy and effectively hid him, wherever you were, however long you were there. You couldn’t have done a better job if you were positively trying to antagonize me.”

“I’m not,” Lucifer hums with a distracted frown, dusts himself off and takes a few steps forward, “I didn’t plan on any of it when I left here. Sam needed help, you weren’t there, I went. I left a message. Everything that happened after happened for a good reason.”

Death arches a brow. The bite in his tone so openly… _annoyed_ , at the very least, angry, at the very worst, flitting between the two to his likings, “Have I not made myself clear or are you expecting me to take your word for it?” 

And Death might be quite at the edge of his patience, but he’s also genuinely intrigued. The outburst of fretful grace he’d felt earlier has been emotional, unfocused, certainly an uncontrolled reaction rather than a display of power. And other than the panic a sudden earthquake would cause, a mild earthquake, at that, it resulted in no casualties. 

The stepping through the years and covering their tracks is its own mystery. Death is somewhat impressed and equally curious. 

Death supposes this is why Lucifer was Yahweh’s favorite once. Those antics, as infuriating as they are entertaining. 

Speaking of which…

And there’s plain disgust on Lucifer’s face when he says it, “I know about Dad. I know about this… Chuck Shurley persona. I know about the books. I know about the _story_.”

Death shifts his grip on his cane as his shoulders drop, his posture eases, nothing about his expression alters, “Aha. Well, that explains it.”

Lucifer explains it some more, through a dry chuckle and a belligerent glare, “So I punched a wall, sure, took Sam somewhere where we won’t be watched like a daytime soap opera, yeah. Pretty reasonable, if you think of it. And you knew. Of course you knew. Did Raphael know?”

“No.”

“I’m not angry at you, actually. The truth is not owed, it’s earned. I didn’t look, I didn’t- I didn’t think there was an answer and I just occupied myself with, hm, other distractions. We all did. He gave us enough to keep us busy.”

Death regards him silently, pensively.

“Will you answer me one question though, Death? Is this, all of this, with you and me, with Sam… is it all part of His plan, His story? Is it all some sort of redemption arc that I’m meant to fail so He can punish me again?”

“You were never meant to get out of the cage at this point. I don’t believe He planned a redemption. Not for you.” Death informs with a tone significantly gentler, but informational all the same, “I don’t know everything, much less His story, but I would assume it’s all set up for, well, Castiel to come in and save the day, which, given what he’s done should be discounted, but I think your father is back to playing favorites with His angels. He does it every couple of millenia now, give or take.”

Lucifer scoffs, shaking his head and taking two steps forward only to walk them backwards again. Energy swirling beneath his skin, too fast and too violent to stay still. Something about not being in Father’s plan, not being taken into His consideration, Not playing a role in His story, hurts in sickly and pathetic ways. Because if Father didn’t even care enough to punish him, if He wouldn’t even spare him a look, if He’s favoring another son, granting forgiveness and a hundred second chances-

Death inches closer and interrupts the storm, “I’m just as… enthused about His actions as you are.”

And he doesn’t ask how. He doesn’t ask when. The minutiae of how Lucifer found out will have to wait. This is a moment. This is important. This is a first. He offers his hand. 

Lucifer takes it, “I need to speak to Michael. Please.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember what I said about last chapter being the last one in the first arc? WRONG. This is the last chapter in the first arc. Also, I can't believe we spent some 25K words in the sea-side cottage and half of them in a bathtub. But anywaay. Things should start to move on faster on forward, unless we decide to add more introspective content in between because, man, do we love angst. 
> 
> But we love your feedback even more!!! Thank you so much for reading!


	25. The Scepter of Your Kingdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley receives concerning news. Michael gets far worse.

It’s quiet in Hell. 

At least in this part of Hell, because this part of Hell is now very purposefully removed from the rest, far enough away that nobody in the throneroom or the king’s chambers or the assorted important things that surrounded those places could hear the screams.

A break from tradition, they say. What a fucking pansy, they say.

Crowley is the king, and he doesn’t much care what they say. It is what _he_ says that counts.

And honestly- when you’re dealing with a few possibly world-ending crises, one could do with some peace and quiet.

Because not only are the Leviathans out doing… something unsavory that if allowed to properly come to fruition, would end up taking out Hell along with Earth by Crowley’s estimates, but- Lucifer is out. Crowley knows that for a fact, though he’d remain very careful not to share, because the rest of the lot would be scrambling to go find Daddy, and then where would he be?

Bunch of sodding loyalists. Rats. He couldn’t stand them.

So. Leviathans, Lucifer out, Castiel dead, Sam… fucking insane, at this point, Crowley does what any demon worth his salt would do.

Puts out feelers. Sets up a web and the moment it starts shaking, the moment you feel the wing-beats of something just about to be ensnared in it, get the hell out of dodge.

His web stretches to the hospital Sam is in. It spreads to Sucrocorp, to Richard Roman Enterprises, to angel radio, bloody everything. He’d have feelers on the bloody moon if he suspected it of anything.

So seeing a demon meant to be stationed as a nurse in that little hospital appearing in front of his throne, head bowed, has Crowley very anxious that _someone_ is out and about (not as Death had promised, but that is one entity Crowley doesn’t have an urge to confront over failure to hold up a deal) and if he is out and about, this demon definitely knows, and if one black-eyed grunt knows- well. They all know.

But he betrays none of that in his gaze, just keeps it pinned on the demon as if he couldn’t care less about the little bastard. Which isn’t particularly hard. He couldn’t.

“Well?”

You could always tell when it’s a demon’s first meatsuit. Their first assignment topside. How blatantly obvious it is when they wear the human like a prized possession, how protective they get with their new skin and their corporeal form as a human would with a brand new phone or a brand new car. How attached to the sun they grow. 

You see it. You see it in their eyes, in their body language. They move a little too frantically, they wave and gesture a lot. They try to breathe like a real person. 

Matter of fact, it’s rather cute. A little pathetic. 

This one is in a uniform with a name-tag that says “Marcus.” Crowley would call him that on forward. Poor chap can’t remember his birth name, not that those should stick, anyway. 

“Forgive me, my king,” Marcus says, clears his throat. Sounds like whatever he is going to say was rehearsed at least five times before in front of a mirror. Suspiciously cautious, tip-toeing around his words, “It’s hours before my daily report is due. But we thought it urgent to inform you…”

Crowley motions to him to cut to the chase. 

The demon’s gaze drifts down to his own hands, he clasps them together tight and nervous, “Sam Winchester’s remarkable physical recovery aside- last night, the entire psych ward fell into this bizarre… painless, dreamless coma. Every single patient. Every staff member. Myself and Rajin and the others included. But that’s not all-”

He pauses, struggling with his phrasing, cracking his fingers near-obsessively, “Less than an hour ago, the hospital building and the surrounding area were stricken by, uh… well, uh, the man in the tee-vee called it a shock wave?” He repeats the explanation he heard verbatim, “Pressure expanding supersonically outward from an explosive core. Cause unidentified. No casualties.” 

And then he appends, nodding, “Broke a lot of shit.”

Crowley doesn’t blink, “And?”

“And Rajin claims the energy must be of angelic origin. I wouldn’t know. But- we immediately searched Sam Winchester’s room. No one was there but him, sleeping, unbothered. The air though, my king, it was in the air. Electricity. Grace? It made the hair on my ski- meatsuit’s skin stand on end.”

Well. That was about as bad as it can get, because that means Lucifer is _in the wind_. Bloody hell. Crowley slowly cocks his head to the side, eyes flickering red as he regards the demon standing in front of him scrutinizingly, weighing the pros of burying him and his entire operation and burying the news with them. 

“So you’re telling me you managed _not_ to safeguard who I told you to safeguard. That we now have a whole night of missing time to make up for. That’s what you’re saying? Brilliant.” Not the problem at hand. He knows that. But, best to lead the demon away from obvious conclusions.

“Of course the grace makes your beautiful princess skin crawl. It’s tainted. With Leviathans, with Purgatory; suppose this means the bloody little seraph-“ Crowley heaves a sigh. “Back to check on Moose, when he’s the one who threw him in the looney bin in the first place.” He forces his lips up into a thin smile, just to sell the lie, sell the indifference. 

“We’ll have to find him now, eh? Castiel. I want a search mounted.” Search for someone who isn’t there, distraction, send them on a wild goose chase. Just… something. He needs something. Perhaps he’s getting a little too frantic himself.

Marcus furrows his brows, shifting uncomfortably because while he had every motivation to buy what Crowley was selling, he didn’t want to risk omitting what he knew to be true. He swallows and shakes his head, “Uh. If you’ll allow me, my king, it’s not… it’s not the seraph. We can feel him. Our fath-”

Probably not what he should say, not when Marcus actually believes in Crowley’s cause, is loyal and grateful to his new king to a fault and he’d rather not antagonize him. One of the few Crowley could spare to trust to look that close and Marcus would really like to keep it that way. 

But Marcus also knows he’s expendable too. They always are. 

“Lucifer. There have been hushed talks. Dreams. Older demons are… dreaming again. Which means one thing. He walks the earth.” 

Crowley’s upper lip curls and he pushes himself up to his feet. “And? So. He’s out, he’s about, he jimmied the lock on the Cage.” More like it was jimmied for him, but for simplicity’s sake, Crowley doesn’t amend his statement.

“If anyone dares to dissent, if any one of you lot _dares_ to seek him out-“ He starts, voice climbing in volume, near yelling very quickly. “If he wanted to come down and rule this festering shithole, if he ‘walks the earth’... wouldn’t he have done so already? Took us all apart atom by atom? No. He’ll come for us next. After the main attraction, surely, and we don’t want that, do we?” He raises his brows, expectant. 

Marcus makes a point of choosing his camp, says it like he means it because he does, “Of course we don’t, my king.”

“You- and everyone else- will carry on as always. You will go back to the hospital. Back to your post. Watch the boy like a _hawk_ , you understand? I will do worse to you than Lucifer could ever dream up-”

And Crowley stops, gives himself a second to regain his bearing, to consider his options, because the young demon is staring at him with fanatic dedication and purpose if he’s ever seen one. And you don’t play on a fanatic’s fear; you weaponize their devotion. 

His tense expression softens, his tone promises carrots and not sticks. 

“Don’t let him jump the Winchester’s bones. This is your one job. This is your do or die. I believe in you. Now let me hear you say it, love.”

If nothing else, Crowley will not go down without a fight. Even if his preferred approach to a fight is guerilla warfare from a safe distance. Disrupt, sabotage, throw in a suicide bomber or ten with vague orders and bugger all to lose, hopefully with just the right amount of blind commitment to raise hell in your stead. 

Stay. Out of the line. Of fire. 

Crowley will keep what's his but he won't die for it. This kid, unfortunately, probably would. 

“Whatever it takes, my king.”

\----

Michael kept Adam’s consciousness locked in at first, sleeping, dreaming. Three happy memories selected methodically and played on repeat. The viceroy of Heaven giving his vessel what Heaven promised to be if Adam weren’t right here in Hell with him. And that was that.

Prom night with Ellie.

The day Adam opened the acceptance letter from UW-Madison with his mother looking over his shoulder. 

And that eureka moment in the university lab when he and Riley believed their future would most definitely amount to something glorious. 

On a loop. Ad infinitum. Or at least a temporary forever until they are out and war is back on the table. As much kindness as Michael knew how to give when a human earned it. And then Michael waited. 

And waited, and waited...

Adam doesn’t know how long his second shot at permanent manufactured bliss lasted. He never thought to ask. But he’d lived those three episodes, kissed that very same girl, read that very same letter and hugged his mother after, shared that celebratory beer with that very same friend, over and over and over again until not even the forced redundancy of this happily-ever-after could compete with the absurdity of Michael’s dogmatic and once perfectly immovable faith- 

Michael stopped waiting the exact moment his fallen brother broke free. And exactly one moment after, Adam was once more snatched out of Dreamland and into the vast and unforgiving domains of free thought and ungoverned nightmares. 

Woke up to find himself seated on a large white chair in a large white room staring at a mirror image of himself seated on a large white chair in a large white room. And Adam would remember wondering if he was the reflection or the reflected living object, that being the first question to lazily tease at the edges of his blank awareness. But his face in front of him was eerily uncooperative, animating just barely to accommodate the subtle curl of his lips as they formed another question entirely, a quiet solemn thing, just a hint of inconsolable despair. 

“Why do you think we are still here, Adam?”

Because here was the cage and the cage was empty. No longer housing the brother this prison was designed for nor the brother who brought them all down with him. Just them. No one and nothing else. And Adam saw the emptiness reflected in his own eyes just then, saw the terrible bottomless nothingness and screamed and screamed and screamed until he didn’t have it in him to scream anymore. 

But Adam doesn’t remember how long ago that was, either. Though sometimes it feels like the only point in time where time existed at all. Everything before was a slideshow of a past life he could view but never truly lived, everything after... is Michael. 

Sometimes Michael would wear a foreign face plucked from the background of one of Adam’s faded distant memories. Those forgotten strangers Adam had once brushed by in the street, or sat next to in a bus, or accidentally crashed into in a grocery store. People that meant nothing to him and came with no history and no stories, no positive or negative associations. Neutral. 

Because sometimes Adam needed to see a face that wasn’t his. 

But mostly it was his face, and his face would slowly and gradually become Michael’s too. Just like his body is Michael’s too, like the wings are Adam’s too. Like the grace is theirs too. 

Like what’s yours is mine and what’s mine is yours and every conjunction in their ongoing eternity being what it is because it is how it is, no negotiation needed when Michael needed him to remain sane and Adam needed him to remain real and nothing else was real but the absolute reality of each other. 

Adam wouldn’t call the resultant friendship co-dependent. He’d call it symbiotic. Mostly because Michael seemed quite fond of the drawn parallel between them and the Colombian Lesserblack Tarantula and the Dotted Humming Frog. Of all the things Adam thought he’d do with an incomplete degree in biology, he certainly didn’t think making God’s first son crack a momentarily carefree chuckle would be one. 

It’s a rare occasion when he does. Makes Adam grin cheek to cheek when he does…

“Exactly what are we looking for, Michael?”

But the very fabric of the cage has been shifting, lately. Something that Adam hasn’t witnessed before but Michael did. Which means the memory of the experience is accessible for Adam if he manages to track it, something that isn’t always feasible considering it’s a needle in the haystack of Michael’s countless archives of countless recollections.

“There’s something you’re not telling me. What is it?”

And Adam asks again because Michael has been on edge since. Pacing, pacing, his grace flaring. More reserved with his thoughts and blocking most of his feelings and while Michael isn’t generally big on sharing those, he never gets this protective of his side of their shared consciousness unless he’s actively protecting Adam from it. 

“Someone else is here.” Michael says quietly, finally, but he doesn’t sound all that sure.

“Someone else?”

“The building material of the cage is solid but rather elastic, it takes our shape, it envelopes us. I can feel a disturbance in it. I can feel it expanding to encase another.”

And perhaps if Adam had heard those exact words a millennium ago, he’d have perked up with hope and juvenile optimism for a rescue that won’t come. But as things are now, he can hardly summon the energy to care, “So they finally managed to throw your brother back in here? Good for them.”

There’s bitterness there that time has worn out and hollowed. It’s not lost on Michael but he doesn’t address it, “He’s not alone.”

“Sam?”

“Not human.”

But here, Michael sounds pretty fucking sure.

He wrenches all control of their body and seats himself firmly behind the wheels, always a steadily violent vacuuming effect as if every particle of Adam’s consciousness is being insistently sucked by and into quicksand until he’s immobile and one with the earth. And Michael spreads his wings and marches forward, his spite a driving force relentlessly drowning all voices of rising curiosity. 

Adam projects a phantom of himself beside Michael, a flickering image that he uses for better communication as Michael often does when they switch places. It still fades in and out of existence because he hasn’t yet mastered exactly how to make it stabilize, not when they’re in the raw dark of the cage and Michael isn’t using his grace to help him focus his energy. “Michael…” He entreats, gently, “Assuming it’s Lucifer and whoever else. What then? What does it have to do with us?”

“They’re heading this way. I suppose I’ll have to ask them myself.”

And as far as Adam knows, Michael and his brother had a very strict do-not-engage rule while the latter was still here. Drew invisible lines in the sand and stuck to their respective corners and kept their distance. And while nothing about the approaching company suggests immediate hostile intentions, Michael is never unprepared for the prospect of an incoming battle, over a broken rule or the mere sight of an enemy closing in on his borders. 

Adam can feel the tension tightening his muscles, a sensation not unpleasant in the slightest. How war wriggles under his skin as tendrils of grace twine themselves around every inch of his insides, pulling them taut, ready to jump, ready to snap. 

His heart still clenches in their chest: Adam’s sudden rising terror as aggressive as his archangel’s bloodlust.

Michael throws his projected face a warning glance, “Do I need to put you to sleep, kid?”

“No, no. I’m fine. I’m with you.”

“Then get a grip. If we’ll fight, we’ll fight. You’ll be fine.”

“I know, Michael. I just think we should maybe find out what this is about befor-”

“Death?”

Adam, an apparition of himself with no real body and thus is in no real danger, still staggers back at the utter confusion in Michael’s question. The two men, obviously not men, that materialized before them are, as he concludes, Lucifer in a vessel Adam doesn’t recognize and Death in the fucking flesh?

And call it a silly human instinct but seeing Death in a black suit with the devil walking by his side as if he owns the place doesn’t exactly inspire joy. 

“Hello, Michael. Adam.” And Death nods greeting neutrally, his voice cordial and placating in an obvious attempt to ease the strain tugging at the strings of Michael’s light. Something Adam instantly appreciates, what with the volcano waiting for permission to erupt pulsing hot and furious in their shared veins at the first contact with Lucifer’s reaching grace. 

Michael maintains silence, regardless, accusatory gaze darting from Death to his brother and then to Death again. 

But then Lucifer shakes his head and scoffs, “What did I tell you, man? Big bro just about ready to jump at my throat the second I dare show my face. A hundred olive branches extended and all. Some things never change.”

And yet Lucifer's playful tone has an elusive touch of reminiscence to it. He raises a hand to wave hello at Adam, throws in a casual wink. Adam exhales air he didn't even breathe. 

“What do you want?” Michael, not usually generous with displaying emotions, does so now with free-rein disdain. His irritation trickling off of him uninhibited and Adam wants to crawl back into a dark secluded corner of their mind where the rapid turbulent back and forth streams of energy can’t touch him, where the two archangels speaking without words aren’t bellowing too loud it’s deafening. 

Death interjects again, volunteers answer after side-eyeing Lucifer with a measure of impatience, “Lucifer is here to talk. You two will behave. You will talk. You will listen. Ferrying him and possibly you and your vessel out of this labyrinth is strenuous enough. I will not tolerate a childish fistfight over some meaningless age-old grudge.”

“What do you mean ferrying us out?”

“I mean precisely what you heard, Michael. Now your brother has something to tell you. Discuss it amongst yourselves and do let me know if you’ll be joining us on our way out or if you’d rather you stay.”

And Adam turns to Michael, wide-eyed and dumbfounded. He parts his lips to speak but Michael shushes him with a glare, his expression settling into this implacable, irreversible verdict, “My brother is a traitor. He betrayed you. He betrayed us. He betrayed Father. I will not associate with him or whatever it is you two are in business together for. I don’t quite care if it means waiting here another thousand years.”

“You poor wretched bastard,” Lucifer hisses, and then he laughs. It rings too hollow and terribly mirthless, “You’ve waited eons and you’ll wait eons more and when He finally spares you a look, it’ll be to use you and then toss you away again-”

“Save it, Lucifer. Your vile nonsense means nothing to me.”

“No, of course it doesn’t. Because I betrayed Him and I betrayed you. Do me a favor and remind me how exactly did that happen? Was it Lilith? Was it the garden? Was it the demons?”

“You defiled His creation, you defied Him-”

“Come on, Michael. Let’s get real. Dad came up with a new species every other week. I ‘defiled’ each and every one of them and so did you, so did Gabriel, so did Raphael. You used to hunt the Nobro for sport, remember? We annihilated civilizations, we sank continents. He never cared-”

“Because He allowed it. The humans were not to be touched.”

“Coming from you, brother, that is precious. The second He jumps ship you start raining down divine wrath in His name. All your prophets and your scriptures. What was that, by the way? A cry for attention? Because guess what? Sure, I experimented with a few of their souls here and there, made me something new and interesting to play with. You… you burnt their villages and their children. You sent down plagues, massacres, crusades- huh, look at me acting like I give a fuck. I don’t. Hope it was fun while it lasted. But let’s not pretend any-”

“You disgust me, Lucifer. I saved their souls. It was retribution. It was righteous. I didn’t do it because I enjoyed it-”

“Oh you fucking loved it. Who are you fooling? You couldn’t care less about their souls if you tried. The only difference between me and you is, I get my hands dirty and I call a spade a spade. You just sit on your high horse and drown the planet when a bunch of apes don’t sing Dad’s praises loud enough, which is singing your praises too, if you think of it, being the sitting president when-”

“That is enough.” And Death strikes the non-ground of the cage with his cane, rising to his feet from the wooden chair he’d conjured earlier, kicking it away as he goes, “We’re not here to debate which of you is worse.” He tilts his head towards Lucifer, sighs exasperatedly, “You begged me to bring you back here for this?”

Lucifer presses his lips, the out-for-blood glint in his eyes immediately dwindling into something quieter, deeper, “No. You’re right. It doesn’t matter. I’ll play nice.”

“Then say your piece and stop wasting my time.”

And while Adam has already retreated to his own body, kept whispering pleas at Michael to shove him farther down so he doesn’t witness any of this, Michael is too occupied to listen, too outraged to accommodate, “Am I expected to just stand here and watch as this serpent questions my faith and my motives-”

“Quiet, Michael. Lucifer, get on with it.”

Lucifer gets on with it, looks properly chastised while he’s at it, “Well, newsflash: Armageddon is cancelled. No one is expecting us to fight anymore. No one is expecting anything of us, really, except to rot here. Least of all Dad. The world moved on, brother. Dad is _over it._ Got his tragic-hero finale and is on to the next best thing. Guess who’s out wreaking havoc as we speak?”

Michael stares at him blankly, not particularly interested. 

“Fine. Be boring. It’s the Leviathans. A brand new apocalypse. That you and I can prevent just like that. But then again we’re supposed to be here while Dad’s favorite baby suffers. Ah- did I forget to mention that Raphael is dead? No one up there to save the planet quick and clean. Cause quick and clean is dull and uninspiring. And Dad likes nothing else if not-”

“Who killed Raphael?” Michael interrupts, stiff and cold. 

“This renegade angel I’ll take care of myself. But hey, Castiel wouldn’t be here to kill your brother if your father hasn’t specifically raised him from the Empty to do it.”

“What are you on about, Lucifer?”

“Father never left, Michael. All this time you grovelled and prayed and founded a religion after another in His name. He was right there, among them, wearing a human face and watching our little shenanigans unfold. The shenanigans he’d trigger to give Himself something to watch. He was never going to come back after you kill me. You were never meant to kill me. It was all a setup for my vessel and yours to make a few difficult decisions, raise the stakes, feed the drama-”

“Father is on Earth?”

Death chimes in, “In a small house in North Dakota, I believe.”

“We’ve moved the story for Him, brother. You and me. For centuries, we played our parts. The predetermined apocalypse, the foretold birth of the Winchesters, Sam’s tainted blood and Dean’s downfall in Hell. And then his rescue, and then the seals to my cage. Every pawn on that chess board, we knew where it was going and where it should be. We thought we were above it all because we thought it was about us. It isn’t. It’s about them. We’re guest stars at best. We’re background noise, plot devices, conflict for the protagonists to resolve. And now our part is over and we’re nothing to Him. I never betrayed you, Michael. He betrayed us. He betrayed all of us.”

And Lucifer glances back at Death, arches a brow in question. Death stares Michael right in the eyes, “Your father made it clear that the both of you serve no purpose in His story at the moment. That you’re disposable.” 

“Come with us, Michael," The devil almost pleads, sounds utterly heartbroken for a brief moment before his tone climbs a hill and his words are sharper, cruler, oddly distant as he chews on them, "He’ll never come for you. He’ll never save you. He’ll never love you. I am so sorry.”

And Lucifer pauses a second, just a second to let it sink in, and then he inches forward, two fingers held up and suspended in the air, drawing ever closer to Michael’s frozen figure, asking permission to not just tell him, to show him. 

Michael plunges into the offered truth head first, perhaps because he needs to know, perhaps because he needs to refute it from within. 

And Adam weeps inside the crumbling rooms of their shared castle when the sky tumbles down in Michael’s eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. 
> 
> So the canon scene in S15E19 where Michael casually admits being the founder of religions is pretty much my favorite piece of lore in later seasons. Just FYI. Also, all archangels are rich spoiled mafia children continously not getting enough hugs from daddy, cue in the family drama. 
> 
> Your feedback makes our week! Thank you so much for reading! <3


	26. Breathed Out by God and Profitable for Teaching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael and Lucifer discuss old politics and even older wounds.
> 
> Warning: Heavily 'blasphemous' content. If you do find the material offensive, please feel free to skip most of the conversation in the middle. Absolutely no offence intended.

Black fades to white, to grey, to an indescribable color almost like a pale glowing peach tinged with soft yellow light before it’s back to grey again. An indecipherable landscape settling into ash and stone and sand surrounding a rapidly growing garden and a... door.

The knots that Lucifer’s grace has twisted itself into and screeched untwist ever so slowly. He relaxes. His vessel breathes out its suppressed panic, greedily breathes in the faint aromas of the flowers several yards away. 

He can still feel the cage clinging to him, suffocating him, a pull to it that called for him, like it knew him and expected him and was waiting for him all along. A haunted house welcoming its one true resident with open arms, demanding he stay.

But Lucifer didn’t stay. They’re out. He’s out. Out and never in again. 

He registers Death in the background gently nudging a visibly disoriented Michael towards his office, hears the discordant hum of the human soul locked in inside his brother’s vessel as it clambers forward for a gravely distressed but somewhat morbidly curious look-see. 

He watches them pause at the entrance, Michael’s sharp gaze flitting from the open space outside to the plush modern furniture inside, his lips wearing a semblance of a wry smile. 

“Why not have it look like an office from the outside?”

“If I said ‘stylistic choice,’ would you believe me?”

“No.”

“Laziness may be the more apt answer, then.” 

And Death leads Michael in. The door shuts behind them. Lucifer turns to his garden. 

The colors soothe him, reassure him; organic life at the tips of his fingers sings to him. He sinks his hand in damp soil and grabs a fistful, squeezes it. He’s not sure why he lobbied for Michae’s freedom, why now, or to what purpose. More so, he can’t quite figure out why Death would grant it, or if he has stakes in this beyond supporting what he deems a just cause. 

Justice. Lucifer wants justice. No, he wants retaliation. 

From Michael, mostly though, he wants an apology. He wants to see it in his brother’s eyes. The defeat, the devastating loss, the abandonment. He wants those wounds he carries with him scarring Michael’s very essence. He wants to witness it again and again, that moment of realization, fresh and brutal, oozing. The agony of it, the fury of it. The perfect harmony of Michael’s desolation playing in tune with his. Lucifer cherishes it.

He’ll freeze this image and hold it dear to his heart and maybe next time he’ll look at Michael, he won’t see him towering over him with a lance, deaf to a thousand pleas, final. Michael was utterly, uncompromisingly final. It burns to remember. 

But feeding a petty vendetta is hardly a cause for celebration. Michael, his big brother, prince of the host and a formidable warrior. Lucifer loves him. Even if he’ll stab him first and then rip his wings out if it ever comes to it again.

It’s nice to have him back. 

And it’s a while, hours perhaps, until Michael is leaving Death’s office and wandering aimlessly in his realm. Hours later when he comes full circle, eventually finding his way to the edge of the garden. He stands there silent and his silence is heavy, absorbing the scenery, contemplating, watching his brother now kneeling amidst rows of floral splendor, injecting the stem of a red camellia with his very grace. 

Lucifer doesn’t shift to face him when he feels him, but he speaks first, casual, mildly conversational, “Death got you up to speed, huh?”

“Very thoroughly. Yes.”

“Busy couple of years,” Lucifer comments nonchalantly, his tone almost easy as if there weren’t a convoluted history and a millenia-worth of blame hanging in the air. As if the so-far brief interaction is merely a follow-up to a discussion they had yesterday, innocent and undemanding. 

Michael says nothing because for all the things he has to say, for the time being, he has nothing to say. 

And Lucifer would smell that existential crisis a mile away, can sense it crawling into his brother’s being and tearing the infrastructure of everything he believes in from the inside out. But Michael is Michael and he’s still standing tall; crushed or not, he carries himself with the same aura of ironclad military authority, a very convincing charade if Lucifer weren’t also Lucifer and could read his brother like an open book. 

It’s endearing, actually. Nostalgic. 

“I never had your vision for these things.” Michael murmurs, after a minute. Traces a pointed finger along the cascading flower trusses of a turquoise jade vine hanging upside down from a supportive wooden pole. 

Lucifer glances over his shoulder, and then he shrugs, “This one shouldn’t be blooming just yet. I’m expediting growth, manipulating their life cycles, cheating. But it’s so beautiful I couldn’t wait, no?”

“Hmm.”

“Remember my first garden on earth?” Lucifer smiles a little wistfully, so very quiet, “There was no oxygen until your asteroids. And then there were, and we made green.”

Michael gives him a single, solemn nod, “I remember.”

“We made everything, Michael. It was all us. It was all ours.”

“It was His to give and His to take.”

Lucifer pulls himself up smoothly, but not abruptly. He rounds a gathering of purple roses and treads slowly, watching his steps, until he’s barely a foot away from Michael and the sand is dull and grey beneath his bare feet. He crosses his arms over his chest loosely, and his tongue curls around every Enochian sound to enunciate it, stress it as it parts his lips, “I don’t fault Father for doing what He pleases with what He owns. I fault Him for the entrapment, the deception, the… indifference. How He’s tarnished Himself and everything we loved Him for. It’s despicable, cheap, insulting. I am owed better. You’ve earned better. Sam deserves better.”

Michael slips his eyes shut, a second, and then he’s staring into the barren horizon again.

“We deserve a worthy God, Michael. I did not bow to Man before and I’ll not bow to _a man_ now.”

And Lucifer says it with the scorn of disenchanted love, the core-deep revulsion when disillusionment clears the murky vision of unmerited infatuation and all that is high and mighty has fallen from grace and is dragged in the mud before his eyes . He says it with spite and he says it in mourning.

Michael’s expression hardens. There’s vigilance in his gaze that emerges with such instinctive vehemence Lucifer almost flinches. But it deflates too quickly, leaves him in waves, and Michael’s aggressively rigid posture wavers. Somehow the transition is disarming, open and unreserved in all the ways Michael isn’t. 

He starts talking, at some point, measuring his words at first, and then he’s letting them flow. 

“After you and Gabriel were gone, and Father left, how do you suppose I kept Heaven’s lights on, Lucifer?”

“You and Raphael were strong enough-”

“For a few millennia, perhaps. Not forever. We’re finite. The host is finite. We couldn’t create more angels. We couldn’t withstand the burden. Without Him, it strained us. And He didn’t leave instructions, and the last of His Word, Metatron took away with him. But do you know what He left us, Lucifer? What housed fractions of His light and was as infinite of a source as He is?”

Lucifer frowns just slightly, “Souls. They reproduce like bunnies.”

“Yes. We couldn’t see it in the beginning, with so few of them. A hundred souls didn’t amount to much. A hundred thousand did. A million? Could lift a margin of the burden off my grace.”

“I see where you’re going… go on.”

“All souls are from Heaven and to Heaven they return. Unless-”

Lucifer blinks understanding, finishes his brother’s sentences easily, “Unless they are tainted, or sold, or claimed by another.”

“Correct. A soul damaged beyond repair is vacant of Father’s light and it craves it, regardless. It adds nothing to the energy pool. It detracts from it. We didn’t want it. Your demons claimed it.”

And Michael only allows just a hint of righteous disgust to manifest there, before he resumes, “But quite honestly, Hell was never cause for concern. It was the pagans. Humankind in its utter ingratitude and imbecility, worshipping planets and seasons and aspects of nature, animals, concepts. Sprung those deities into being and promised their souls to them-”

Lucifer starts laughing heartily, his shoulders shaking with it, “And those small-time deities hurt your annual revenue. Took a good chunk of your harvest. Collected their souls and harnessed their power. Grew ever stronger?”

“By the day,” Michael wears the shame like a medallion, embracing it now, “They built their small realms, their dynasties, their religions. Followers, true believers, millions, vowing their souls to them. I watched myself fail at my charge for a thousand years, Lucifer. I was failing Him, I thought it was a test and I was failing Him-”

“Why not just exterminate them, then?”

“Because you can’t eradicate concepts, ideas, beliefs. You cut a head; it grows another. That is in addition to Gabriel’s brief return to play ambassador, advocate for this one big happy capitalist family where profit and the acquisition of power are free for all and mutually assured destruction maintains the peace.” And Michael’s face, for once, speaks volumes of exactly how much he detests the mere suggestion, “In desperation, we tried it his way for a while. Outsourced some of Heaven’s duties to lesser gods, diplomatic relationships some of which persist to the day. Treaties, negotiations, bargains, schemes. Soul was the only currency and we were hanging just barely by the skin of our teeth, clinging to supremacy that was fading, pretending Father still ran the show, that we had the upper hand to give and deny. I- I couldn’t stand this shifting economy, those base things, unworthy things, undeserving things, sinking their filthy claws in a herd of sheep, taking what is our birthright and ours to protect. We were losing.”

Something clicks and Lucifer hums thoughtfully, almost sympathetically, “So you made yourself a player on the same board.”

“I gave humans what they wanted. A religion. This one true God erasing all that came before him. All-caring, all-knowing, all-seeing, all wrath. It was the truth, brother, as much as it was a lie. I gave them the god I remembered and revered, even when He’d already forsaken them. A being they could love and fear and die for. And they did. They died and killed for Him. Wiped out most of the others with armies and missionaries, swords and books, did my job for me.” 

It's amusing, in all honesty, the Abrahamic god in all his depictions. Lucifer had read the texts the first time after the cage, thought the Old Testament version was the truest to what he knew Father to be. But he understands the progression now, the trial and error, the alterations. The same stories adapted to different cultures and different human needs. Make Him kinder, make Him cruler, endorse a message and then its opposite, holy crusades and Jihad and love thy neighbor and forgive, forgive, forgive, but smite them all-

“Mm. I sure did miss most of the action.”

“You said, earlier, that I couldn’t care less about their souls if I tried. You’re not wrong. I didn’t care. I had to care. When the very existence of Heaven relied not only on the survival of one small planet, but on cornering its market. I _needed_ them.”

And while Lucifer was never one for management and abhorred the mundane formality of it with fiery passion, knows that his brother would have preferred a strategized war over a strategized media campaign, he still can’t help but admire him for it. For the efficiency, the cut-throat precision, the way Michael played a game that was beneath him and played it to win. 

How he wins, how he prevails. Lucifer is both envious and so, so very fond. 

But if Michael can notice the indiscreet delight on his little brother’s face, he doesn’t address it. He’s silent again and Lucifer doesn’t interrupt the pause out of earned respect. He knows what comes next.

And what comes next is the flames of indignation, the conclusion, the verdict. Michael is vibrating with it. This awareness. This clarity. The spark of rebellion. It’s glorious. It’s glorious. 

“This is the legacy He left me, Lucifer. This humiliation. Bending over backwards, scrambling over insects and pests and worms in the dirt for scraps of His light. To save our home. To keep what’s ours. To thrive, again… stooped so low- commercializing myself and Him and the Word like a door-to-door salesman with a quota. I thought it was a test. I thought it was a test-”

“We do what we have to do. And you’ve done it, Michael. You reigned supreme. You didn’t need Him. Then why? Why the apocalypse? Why destroy your source of fuel?”

“We wanted Him back. It didn’t matter if you’d kill me or if I’d kill you. I’m old and tired and done. I wanted Father back.”

Lucifer sees an opportunity and he takes it, “And now?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what is there to want. I don’t see the purpose of it all. Why did you get me out, Lucifer?”

And Lucifer doesn’t have an actual answer to that. And yet an answer slips out of his lips all the same, “Because we need you. And we need Gabriel. And we need everyone with a bone to pick and an axe to grind and a score to settle and just enough power to turn the tables. Because- Michael, there will be hell to pay.”

Michael scoffs incredulously, the way he so often did back in the day when the brother he practically raised, for all his fire and for all his bluster, was no more than a delusional child with a ridiculous pipe dream and a disaster written all over it, biting off more than he can chew and dragging the rest of them down with him. 

But, well, it’s not a no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we kept this chapter short and independent because it's almost entirely lore. The timeline of Heaven and when both God and Gabriel left in relation to the dawn of mankind and Lucifer being cast out and the emergence of other deities has a ton of conflicts in canon? So I guess we tried to establish a version of that history that works for us and that also sets up for later plot stuff here. (PLUS, the afterlife and all theology and the systems of morality based on them being a side effect most deities don't care about because they're just playing the market for maximum soul profit is... fun?)
> 
> Oh, and we'll probably get back to Sam next chapter, but a couple of new characters before that! 
> 
> As always, your feedback is a gift. Thank you so much for reading!


	27. On the Right Side of the Altar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another family reunion.

He is getting soft. He knows that, has made peace with the fact that his infallibility and impartiality have gotten a little more fallible and partial.

It may have started after the first time Death aided the elder Winchester, the moment Yahweh wrote him into the story and, in God’s unequivocal arrogance, expected him to take his little sequestered role on the sideline and play along the script as the rest unknowingly did. 

Death was offended then, but not surprised. It was always the same with Yahweh. Give Him an inch and He’ll take a mile. Forgive a transgression and it shall be repeated. And they’d forgiven too much. 

So it’s a tinge of spite, maybe. Or it’s curiosity. 

Because when you’re inevitability and entropy and the end, the allure of fresh beginnings can be a tad tempting. And Death is just a little invested in where this might go, if the road less travelled is taken, if the variables are changed, if a reaction equal in force and opposite in direction would stalemate the story or entirely alter its course. 

That remains to be seen. 

So Death would play along with something new, give the underdog a fighting chance, see what happens. 

For that, three would be better than two.

And it’s not as if Lucifer and Michael, considering the current status of their political asylum, have any easy access to those little pagans, or their archangel paramours. Hiding away in realms adjacent to this universe where neither the archangels nor Death have jurisdiction. But where Michael burnt most of his bridges, Death has built several. 

Through Hel, through Anubis, through Hades, an open channel of communication with those Death occasionally shared his own domain and passageways and reapers with. Well-cultivated mutually beneficial relationships coming in handy now when needed. 

Hel is happy to provide a location and a way. 

And Death steps out into the garden after the necessary calls have been made. A plastic cup of diet soda held loosely in hand, ice scraping against the bottom of it as he purses his lips around the straw for one last sip. There’s keen intent in his eyes, but it’s as mellow and laid-back as the in-session reunion he just interrupted is tense. He cocks his head suggestively when the two brothers shift to face him, and he offers, an invitation.

“You do want to find Gabriel, yes?”

\----

Time travel tends to take a toll on the human body; an unorthodox game of dark magic and death and resurrection tends to take a toll on the human soul; Lucifer’s promises and the threats between their lines, his truths and his omissions, his every touch and his every word, and the steady unabated affection infused therein, well… those take a toll on a human’s heart. 

Sam wakes up to a strong arm hooked around his middle, lifting him off a bed with significant effort. For all its pliability and how ridiculously easy it can twist on a whim, Sam’s anatomy clings to its weight and rigidity and the figure hunched over him huffs with exertion, breath warm and rather hectic. 

He’s not potty in the hands of a being larger than life and colder than the arctic. He’s not floating in zero-gravity and bending with zero resistance. He’s not freezing and he’s not folding. He’s heavy. He’s fevered. The simple realization pries his eyes wide open and-

“Nothing to worry about, there we go, almost there-”

He’s not sure where he is for ten seconds there. And then suddenly, and all at once, his senses are working the overtime to readjust to the drastic change of input. The open horizon faded and replaced with walls, the salt in the air now an artificial scent of antiseptic and disinfectants mixed with undertones of burnt electrical wires. The soft noise of sea echoing inside his head like a faint half-forgotten melody until nearby shouting drowns it out entirely and it’s gone. 

Back in the hospital, then. Back in his room. Back in 2012. 

A nurse and an orderly trying to move him into a wheelchair and Sam’s limbs finally cooperate.

“I can- I can walk,” Sam blurts out quickly and plants his feet on the floor just to prove it. He doesn’t exactly feel weak as much as disoriented, and his skin seems to reject the foreign body pressed against it to support his weight on principle. He wriggles himself free a little forcefully, takes him a moment to begrudgingly accept that his muscle-response is lagging behind in the process. That his balance is off and his vision is still distorted on the edges. He drops himself on the chair of his own accord after. 

The nurse smiles impatiently but not unkindly, “It’s okay, Sam. We’ll just get you out of here. It’s okay.”

‘Here’ explains the sense of urgency on their overwhelmed faces. The damage residing in every corner is almost a statement. Sam scans it analytically and yet in enough haste to match. Shattered glass reflecting faraway sunlight in an otherwise dark room- what few pieces of furniture, the desk, the chair, the bedside table, all crumpled against one wall on their sides, broken and bent. 

He doesn’t remember this room being this old or this large. Something about it is softer now that it’s destroyed. It’s as if its once industrially dreary and claustrophobic atmosphere is now given history and character. Somehow it’s more colorful and alive like this, scorch marks on the walls and cracks in the floors and dancing shadows of unrestrained fury haunting the space and soaking every flammable surface in kerosene. 

Lucifer didn't light the match, after all. 

And Sam would rather stay right here where he can claim the wreckage because it’s his to claim. Drop an anonymous tip to whom it may concern, tell them of the terrorist in their midst and of the ruin that follows his every step, of exactly why everything he touches shall turn to dust. Sam would rather stay.

“We’re moving you to another room until we get this one fixed up, hm? Nothing to worry about, Sam. Just an, uh… a lightning storm, I think.”

And the nurse squeezes his shoulder in a professionally apt attempt to comfort panic she assumes must be there but isn’t, really. Sam receives the old news with a blank expression and a distinctly ironic nod. Guilty by association, if nothing else. 

“Anyone got hurt?”

The orderly wheels Sam’s chair out and into the hallway, silent. The nurse keeps her tone light and soft, but the physical stress is poorly concealed, nonetheless, “Nothing serious. A few accidents here and there. Mostly people freaking out over property damage. You should see the cars downstairs. But we’re incredibly lucky, aren’t we?”

The masses of mental patients being rushed out of their rooms in various levels of extreme distress alongside them don’t look so lucky. They look rattled and frightened. The air charged with barely contained hysteria 

“How are you feeling, Sam? All good? If there’s any anxiety, it’s perfectly understandable. I can-” 

Sam doesn't necessarily mean to but he cuts her off aggressively anyway, “I’m fine.”

“Well then I think you’ll like your new room better. Might even make a couple of new friends.”

They end up moving all relatively ‘stable’ patients to another ward on the other side of the building where the aftermath of the ‘lightning storm’ is significantly less catastrophic. Hospital hallways loud and jammed with staff stretched too thin trying to accommodate a natural disaster no one can properly name. More severe cases transferred to other facilities because there’s simply neither the manpower nor the time to both repair what was broken and cater to those in need of urgent care. Consequences too insignificant in the greater scheme of things, power outage and financial loss, the odd psychotic episodes triggered by the chaos, the unfortunate bastards still stuck in the OR-

Lucky. Could have been much, much worse.

Sam despises the fact. The casual indifference of it. A small outburst and a few broken windows and Sam can see the chain reaction and the butterfly effect, how every human passing by the open door of his new room is somehow marked by it. In whatever infinitesimal way their day has been disturbed, in all the ways their life could have been turned upside down and dismantled, an easily dismissed side-effect of powers beyond their comprehension merely existing in terrible, destructive proximity, even when it’s unintentional. Even when Sam can’t rationalize blaming the devil for what is, at the end of the day, a knee-jerk reaction. An accident. 

All Sam can think about is innocent bystanders at the wrong place at the wrong time, torn to shreds and charred. That Lucifer could have burnt them all. That they were spared. 

No pointed anger, righteous or otherwise, just the bleak poignant awareness of this planet in its utter frailty and the million absurd and incidental ways it’s still bound to suffer the extravagant moods of those who can obliterate it, when they choose not to obliterate it. 

Pathetic, the sheer habituality of Sam’s deep and abiding gratitude. Sick and it sickens him. 

And Sam doesn’t fall asleep so much as blacks out for nine hours straight the second he’s left alone to pay the natural order its dues. And when he wakes up next, there’s a girl on his door with bandages on her neck and a vengeful spirit that loves her just enough to kill her, right on her shoulder. 

\----

“We’re not on Earth?” 

Michael eyes the door at the end of a suspiciously long hotel hallway skeptically, purses his lips and turns to Death, curious. 

And Death takes a measured step backwards, hums placidly, “I’m currently on Earth, yes.” And then he takes two steps forward, demonstrative, “And now I’m in a temporal bubble dimension between Earth and Asgard. You’re standing on the threshold.”

“Pretty neat. Can we get on with it already?” Lucifer mumbles, not particularly fascinated with the concept, striding towards the door in earnest, “Quite frankly, Michael, I’d be embarrassed if I were you. Underground tunnels and secret doorways right under your nose. This shouldn’t exist.”

“I didn’t exactly barricade the galaxy, Lucifer. Rats will always dig a way in. You either set traps to catch them fresh or you let them roam until they give you a reason to gas them. I didn’t see the point of wasting time and resources on round-the-hour surveillance.”

“You two may need to consider a more diplomatic approach-” Death suggests offhandedly, “A little less holier-than-thou once you’re in. I don’t see this working if you’ll walk in guns blazing. Your brother is not a hostage. He chose to be here.”

“...and we’re not on our home turf and you’d like to keep your friendly connections-” Lucifer intones, “-friendly.” 

“Preferably.” 

“Gotcha.”

And Lucifer reaches forward for the door without further notice, before Michael pulls him back firmly by the shoulder, his stance alert, combat-ready, “You’ll let me do the talking.”

An order. Pretty fucking typical it’s almost laughable. Big brother calling the shots where it counts. Lucifer indulges it because he misses it. The good old days when they played on the same team. For all their radical differences and the arguments and the fall-outs, when it was still something to remedy instead of annihilate. 

Old habits. Bittersweet. 

Lucifer enunciates his words playfully, gleefully, “Sir, yes, sir.”

He doesn’t mean it. Michael knows it too. An inside joke.

But before either of them can take the initiative, the door swings open and there’s Gabriel. 

No. Not Gabriel. Just an identical vessel. Loki.

The blunt surprise on Loki’s face is priceless. He squints for a split second, and then he slams the door shut right in their face. 

Lucifer takes the invitation for what it is. Kicks the very same door wide open almost immediately, “Easy does it, compadre. We come in peace.”

Michael straightens up, his grace sings for war and Lucifer tunes in.

And Loki sighs dramatically and leans against the frame of the door, arching his brows and blocking the way in, “Mm. Coming from you that’s pretty rich. Lucifer. Can’t say it’s a pleasure.” His gaze swivels to the left. “And Michael. A surprise, and not a pleasant one. What do you want?”

“A word, with our brother. And then we’re out of your hair and we’ve never been here. Where is he?”

Michael, bless him, is all work and no play, never has time for games or pissing contests. He pushes past Loki and steps forward like he owns the room anyway, wings spread and eyes focused, searching. 

“Ah ah- my house, my rules.” Loki backs a step, waving a hand to force Michael back a few paces. “Gabriel’s a little… tied up, at the moment, but I’ve gotta wonder what you two could want with him. Seeing as one of you is a backstabbing traitor and the other drove him to run away in the first place, right?” 

Michael is in his face in an instant, no walking, no detectable motion. Just a blink and the distance between them ceases to exist. The very infrastructure of the hotel suite warps on itself to accommodate him, “Don’t waste my time. What I want is my business. _Where is he_?”

And Lucifer stands a few feet away, posture relaxed and eyes casually surveying the remarkably unremarkable room, a bit too posh for his taste. He’d expected at least a medieval touch somewhere in the residence of a Nordic god, something of heritage, a soul to go with the empty human luxuries. None of that. He stares at his own nails instead, waiting. 

Death is nowhere to be found. Lucifer supposes it’s for the best. He cracks his fingers. 

And Loki’s upper lip curls up into a sneer, “Like I said: tied up. Now it’s my understanding that family walking in usually ends up in a ruined orgasm. So you two can sit down right there and talk to me and _wait_ , mkay? I wouldn’t look so pleased, Lucifer, you killed my father. It’s a miracle I haven’t taken your brother’s blade and run you through myself-”

“Oh you wouldn’t fathom how much I’d love to see you try-”

Michael waves at him to shut it, brow quirked and lips set impatiently. Meaningless threat dismissed because it’s meaningless, “When you say tied up, am I to take it literally?”

“Don’t worry, pretty boy, he likes it.” Loki takes a step back and gestures to the sofa. “ _Sit_. Or he won’t be coming out to speak with you at all.”

Lucifer exhales slowly as the corner of his mouth twitches into a thrilled toothy grin, red glowing in his eyes. No fury, no frustration, just amusement and an opportunity for righteous violence. His wings unfurl behind him and he lurches- almost. Because Michael shakes his head again, “Lucifer. This will not go unnoticed.”

No, it won’t. Because this could be a massacre and they’re very much capable. And Lucifer would just love the outlet. Except the energy residue will bring too much attention. And this is supposed to be discreet. Lucifer halts in his tracks, blinks.

Michael flicks a finger and the sofa moves to his side of the room. He sits down unceremoniously, throws one leg over the other, “It’s not in my best interest to kill you, but I’m not here to engage in games and cheap tricks. I urge you not to test me. Won’t end well for either of us. Now are you going to bring him out peacefully or should I go find him myself?”

Loki pauses imperceptibly. “What are you two hiding from?” He hums thoughtfully, summoning a wrapped bar of chocolate to hand. “I think I’m well within my rights to demand an explanation. For one, why aren’t you at each other's throats?”

Lucifer smirks. This little shit is just asking for it. Lucifer thinks he can be discrete if he has to, minimalistic, just a little, “We’re on a twelve-step program. Next.”

Loki kicks back and chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re gonna need to get me a referral for that. Didn’t answer my first question though, did you?” He clicks his tongue. “How’d you get out on parole, and whose… ire are you wanting to avoid? I do have experience with these things. And we’re all friends here. I can help.”

Michael is expressionless and right on the edge of his patience, “God.”

Lucifer repeats after him, “Isn’t it always?”

Loki laughs, a little nervous, “God? Capital G?” And he is grinning but he’s so obviously pissed. “Great. Great, that’s fine. And you’re reaching out to Gabriel… why, exactly? Want to pull him back into the shitstorm that is your familial drama?”

Michael presses his lips and hisses, “I’d fill you in if you weren’t so utterly insignificant He wouldn’t even bother with your kind. It doesn’t concern you. It does very much concern our brother, though. I’m assuming you do concern our brother, as well. Why I’m choosing to remain civil as of yet. Will you be doing all the speaking for him?”

Lucifer didn’t exactly factor this in. Attachment, the hint of protectiveness, feelings. Makes you brave. Makes you stupid. Would most definitely alienate Gabriel further if things end up in the direction they’re going. Bummer.

But Loki relents and saves everyone the hassle, lets out a put upon sigh and raises his hand to snap his fingers...

And Gabriel staggers into the room, hair sex-mussed and wings twitching behind him. He freezes, staring down at his brothers. At a complete loss for words. His shock is aggressive, a question mark, demanding.

“We have guests. Why don’t you put a shirt on?” Loki summons one to hand and tosses it behind himself to Gabriel.

Lucifer keeps his distance. Hands fiddling with a figurine he picked off a nearby table. Eyes set on Gabriel, warm and curious, a cloud of old grudges and the willingness o bury them. Michael displays the smallest of an emotional response, which, for him, is a lot. 

“Good to see you well, brother."

“More than well,” Lucifer hums. The tenderness he feels is sharp, vindictive; it doesn't sound tender at all, “Right back in the slums, Gabe. Rock on.” 

Gabriel narrows his eyes, tugging his shirt on and taking a few steps back. “High and mighty coming from the bastard who tried to kill me, hm? Do you think by crying like a bitch after, you made it all better?” Gabriel spits, not even acknowledging Michael, “Go back where you belong.” 

“You tried to kill me first, little brother. I love you, but I’m big on self-preservation as one often is,” Lucifer shrugs the betrayal, shelves it, honest, “Well, you’re alive, I’m outside, water under the bridge now.”

“Yeah, no. It’s not. But go on. How are you here? How are you out? How are you together- why?” And Gabriel crosses his arms over his chest defensively. The cold welcome is teetering on the edge of hurtful. 

“Wow, it’s almost as if you should have left him alone because you would get the same answers from me.” Loki whispers under his breath.

And Michael is allowing the interaction for the mere sake of nostalgia. Lucifer and Gabriel always fought and made up and then fought again. The terrible familiarity of it all, of all three of them being in the same room. Lucifer can feel it too, even when feeling it brings about an onslaught of what ifs.

“Come with. We need privacy for this. No strings attached,” Michael promises. 

“Where?”

“Somewhere safer than here,” Lucifer looks around and wrinkles his face, “I should warn you. A lot less of a brothel though.”

“Mmm, if that’s how it’s gonna be, you can take your pompous ass and leave. I’m fine speaking to just Michael, actually.”

Michael throws a half-hearted glare at Lucifer and sighs, standing up, “No. All three of us. Together. Come.”

“You’re not going to strongarm me into this, Michael. Really- where the hell is more warded, safer than here? How did you find the place, anyway?”

And Lucifer can smell the fear and he can almost understand it. It's not as if, in different circumstances, Michael wouldn't be here to enforce his very own version of reform and Lucifer wouldn't be here to punish because he's been wronged. Both very valid concerns and neither is the kind of road Gabriel would let himself walk willingly. And this- as much as it disgusts Lucifer to acknowledge it, is his home. This has been Gabriel's home for millennia. Gabriel never found his place in Heaven, never wanted anything to do with it. He’s always wanted out. And if that was his only offence, it would have been easy. But it isn't.

Michael glances at Loki, and then back at Gabriel, “Same answer to both questions. But this stays in the family, Gabriel. Now stop hiding behind your little friend. It’s disgraceful. Let me tell you what I’m here to tell you. Decide for yourself afterwards.”

And Michael sounds weary. A strange look on him. Like he can’t find the energy to strongarm or enforce this conversation because it weighs heavy on his shoulders and yet he’s pushing through the motions, soldiering on. Old dynamics just as they always were.

“Fine. Fine. We leave, and when we get to wherever the hell you want, you’ve got five minutes. Capiche?”

“Gabriel…” Loki says warningly, sitting up a little straighter.

And that, that is peculiar. The veiled threat, the surety behind it. Lucifer is almost personally offended by it. Gabriel could crush the pagan if he so decides it. How dare he?

But Michael is done coddling and practically pulls Gabriel by the arm and flies them both out of the room.

Lucifer stays behind a minute longer, lifts the figurine in his hand and waves with it inquisitively, “Hey Loki, can I take this? My current dwelling is a literal wasteland.” He tilts his head, so absolutely buddy-buddy, in all the ways the shift in tone is more unsettling than it is amicable. 

“Unless you want me to know where your barren wasteland is- no.” Loki slowly stands, walking up to him. “If he says no to your little… whatever it is you’re doing? Promise not to come back and try again. From one supposed liar to another.” 

Lucifer regards him silently for a moment. There’s the possessiveness again. It’s emotional, if you look close enough, invested. Lucifer understands, relates, doesn’t care.

His face twists with theatrically exaggerated disappointment; he pouts and lays the artifact on the table. Eyes dart back to Loki, cold and empty, “One supposed liar to another, no promises. We need him. This is biblical. Anyway. See ya.”

And he flies away to join the other two. Just in time to catch Gabriel’s incredulous “You’re fucking kidding me,” the second his gaze lands on Death.

“Walk with me.” Death nods gently, gesturing for the three to follow him as he strides down the hallway and straight into his realm.

It's a full house tonight.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, 100K words. We appreciate the hell out of you and your support means the world! Thank you so much for reading!


	28. For He Does Not Bear the Sword in Vain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to make friends and alienate people.

Who do you pray to in a fleeting moment of need when the devil is always listening and God never once did?

“Give me strength, give me strength, give me strength-”

Sam pleads with himself in low toneless huffs. Himself because himself is all he has. Like a man possessed he stares at his left open palm where the not-so-old scar has scabbed over mangled mistreated skin, was never allowed to heal quite right for all the good that has done. And yet something that was his and is his no longer. Etched into those damaged blood vessels is a soul-binding seal that confines him to a body he’d forgotten how to call his own. Sam has been trying, rather obsessively and for an hour now, to bring the invisible contract to the surface. To study it, to find a loophole, to break it. 

Hand clammy and fingers involuntarily curled like claws and Sam has this entirely consumed expression with the knit brow and the pressed lips and the sweat at the back of his neck because he’s fighting on two different fronts and if he can’t make the curse manifest, he’s deluded himself into thinking he might be able to burn it off of him blind. If he channels enough energy to the task, if he endures long enough. And why? Why does any of this matter? He’s not sure. It itches. A too-tight collar digging tighter into his throat. 

“This some self-actualization empowerment bullshit, bunkmate?” The hallucination hums from the corner, ever so cheerful. It’s been keeping a distance. Wouldn’t shut up but hasn’t inched any closer to touch. 

Sam ignores it. 

He did ask an orderly for pen and paper and they gave him a marker and a sketchbook. Nothing he can stab himself with, which, a funny thing to worry about since Sam is decisively not allowed to die and that’s precisely the problem.

“Level with me, Sammy. I know your newly discovered access to the powers-that-were is tempting and all, but what’s your angle here, buddy? Gonna skin your entire arm to the bone rummaging for flesh magic bigger and meaner than your old-time dainty skills with play-dough can ever be… for what, exactly? A declaration of independence?”

Yes. Probably that.

Sam tries to recall the motion of Lucifer’s fingers, tries to visualize it, the very brief flash of the seal before his skin soaked it in and it vanished. He follows along a vague recollection first, drawing lines and connecting them into geometrical shapes until any hint of resemblance clicks. And when that proves fruitless, he starts fusing Sumerian logographic symbols together, archaic and neo varieties, on top of each other. And then he includes Enochian. But he doesn’t have much to go on and cuneiform signs are a bitch to cite on memory alone. 

One failed attempt after another. One wrinkled discarded sketch after another.

The sigils from the cottage, Sam remembers most of those though. Puts them down to paper too and he’d give a kidney for his laptop or at least a selection of books he can cross-reference for the exact methodology because maybe it’s something to work with. To what end, he doesn’t know either. But maybe it’s something to work with. 

“Break those chains, buckaroo. It’s a good look on you.”

Sam spares him a glance that would have impaled him if a look could impale, “You’re uncharacteristically peaceful for, you know, you. One would think you’re under strict orders not to touch me. Huh.” He scoffs with the belated realization and shakes his head, breathless, eyes back to the scar, still growing hotter and redder by the second because Sam is burning it from the inside out and, god, does it hurt. He sucks on air and presses on, “I mean, you didn’t just decide to talk my ear off from the farthest corner of the room. You are because it’s all you can do. What has he got to threaten you with?”

The hallucination, not-Lucifer, grimaces momentarily, and then it leans forward where it’s sitting on the desk, feet on the chair, rests its elbows on its knees and its chin over its clasped hands, gaze quite blasé. It smiles, a small vindictive thing, “Aaaand the gears are finally turning. It’s fascinating, frankly, the kinda gems you come up with when you’re not too busy being a doormat for scraps of love and mercy. Keep’em coming, roomie. You’re getting warmer.”

And Sam’s nostrils flare more out of frustration than indignation. He doesn’t understand this, or himself, or the hallucinations supposedly being part of him with an ambiguous endgame he can’t for the life of him put his fingers on. One second it’s the voice of reason, if a little too harsh and a little too manic, riding the guilt and swinging the deep-seated shame like a bullwhip, and then the next it’s Lucifer’s lackey and it’s pulling on Sam’s strings for the big yes, offering it on a silver platter and… _what does it want?_

“Suppose I’m just chaotic evil like that,” it croons, sighing heavily as if it can’t help it, “Plus, Sammy-boy, everyone and their mother know: one doesn’t have to cut you open to fuck with you. You bruise so easy. We’re having a blast regardless.”

Sam assumes that if this new hands-off policy is in fact enforced by Lucifer, then Lucifer must have found a way to keep the hallucinations in check. He did promise to ‘handle it.’ And if so, sure, all the parts of Sam that know nothing else are scrambling over each other to sing the devil a symphony of gratitude. But then there remain a few questions. Why is it still here? How many wires in his brain did Lucifer uncross to mitigate the waking nightmare that was Sam’s psychosis into a mildly irritating background noise Sam can, with some effort, tune out. And if that is the case, why didn’t he uncross them all, banish it altogether? And is this new development a cause or an effect of Lucifer’s minor outburst? Did he-

“Wrong direction.” The thing slams its fist against the desk, makes Sam flinch. Seems pretty fucking pleased with the reaction for a second before its face hardens with aggressive disappointment, “You know how correlation doesn’t always mean causation? That. Try again you dumb whore.”

Sam blinks, loses focus. Just good old fear creeping in and rendering him mute. It’s inside him. It can read his thoughts. He’s having this conversation whether he engages it or not. He has to forcefully remind himself out loud that the verbal abuse is the worst it can get, “Why don’t you go fuck yourself since that’s apparently all you can do-”

“Who are you talking to?”

He jerks back, startled. And then he’s abruptly turning to the source of the voice. The same girl he saw a few hours back standing at his doorstep when he was still fresh out of a nightmare, thought she might have been a dream too. 

There she is again. 

And holy hell does Sam look terrifying. Cross-legged on his bed with pages off his notebook torn or crumpled and scattered around him in a half circle. Lines of sigils and notes in two extinct languages and one unknown to man, drawn with a red marker as if inked in blood. One hand splayed open and vibrating, its skin inflamed. He’s been twitching on and off, hair slick with sweat and gaze wild with fire, having a heated exchange with a figment of his imagination and if this doesn’t look like a summoning ritual to call in the devil, it’s because Sam doesn’t fucking need one. 

But she doesn’t know that. And to her credit, and oddly enough, she looks a lot more sympathetic than disturbed. 

Sam stares past her at the hallucination behind her, Not-Lucifer leaning back against the wall to lounge over the desk and watch. He considers not pushing his luck and ending this interaction before it starts, what with the omnipresent possibility of things going to hell in a blink. Horror-movie nurse from a while ago is still too fresh. 

But now it’s grinning placidly and holding one hand up in the air, mouthing at Sam, almost a good-faith promise, “I’ll behave.”

Sam doesn’t believe it for a second. 

“I’m Marin, by the way. Room at the end of the hall.” The girl mumbles, and then she points outside awkwardly, takes a few steps in. 

Sam puts the marker down in slow motion, looks up at her silently. His people skills have been terrific lately. 

“You’re the guy who slept through the storm, right? Sam? Heard a couple of nurses chatting. They thought you were in a coma.”

“Uh-” And he shifts to pull up and off the bed. Moves carefully and slowly because Sam is aware he looks unhinged, has absolutely no desire to look threatening too, “Guess I was. Sorta.”

He makes his way to the small bathroom adjacent to his room in practiced dismissive steps, runs cold water over his burnt hand because it won’t stop throbbing. It would seem, to an outside observer, as though Sam has just pressed his palm flat to a hot stove. But the heat did come from within. A risky, reckless exercise for two particular reasons. One: Sam can manipulate the temperature of his surroundings at will; but throw in organic matter and you’re messing with its very chemical composition on the cellular level and the outcome is unpredictable at best. Two: he should never do it to himself because Lucifer said so. 

Oh, he’ll get flayed for this good and proper when Lucifer sees it, and then crucified until he can't remember his own name just to cinch the point. Or at least that's what he got for trying, that one-time-and-never-again in the cage when he didn't even know he shouldn't. Might get far worse now for the repeat offence alone. In any case, Sam will live to regret it later. 

But due punishments aside, he’ll have a lot of explaining to do once the doctor or the nurses are done attending to the post-archangel-rage chaos and have all the time in the world to actually check on him properly. 

“Good luck explaining the hickies too, loverboy.” Not-Lucifer taunts from feet away. 

And Sam shoves his head under the faucet too, just briefly, just to regulate the intermittent fever. And then he’s staring at his reflection in the plastic mirror, the marks on his neck left intentionally unhealed, a split-second flashback of Lucifer all over him with lips and teeth in the shower. The fucking son of a bitch-

Doesn’t matter. Sam won’t be here come next morning. The plan is to forge his way out of the hospital at some point after midnight. Get a payphone. Call Dean. Cancel pointless search for the cure that doesn’t exist and is hardly relevant anymore, anyway. Hitchhike to one of Bobby’s safe houses and wait. Have the talk.

There’s still the talk-

“Um. Hey. Want this? You look like you could use the energy”

And she’s still here.

Standing in the middle of the room, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, holding out a candy bar like a bribe for friendship and Sam appreciates the gesture in its simple juvenile humanity more than he knows how to express. 

“Share it with me?” He offers back, ruffling his soaked hair with a small towel. Does a half-assed job of drying it before he abandons that and reaches for the Snickers and unwraps it, splits it in two, gives her a half. His own attempt at establishing any kind of rapport feels rusty and taxing. He puts in the effort, he tries. 

“Thanks,” and then she chuckles wearily as if her very existence is something to laugh off to a degree, “I don’t know why I’m thanking you for a candy bar I stole.”

Sam knows why. Knows when the bar is so low even the bare minimum of basic decency is an unearned kindness, something to be grateful for. But that’s not all there is to her. Because Sam can recognize this too, the cornered haunted thing in her unsteady gaze. Someone with a life sentence and a noose around their neck waiting at the end of it. 

“So, how long you been here?”

She folds one arm over her chest, protective, “Five weeks and counting. Going for the record. You?”

Sam wants to give her a number, except he’s not really sure. Not when an impromptu trip to the past is involved and the memories of eons before it still feel like yesterday and he’s losing track of time, again, like he always does when the mere concept of it is null and void to an entity that can stretch it or clip it whenever they deem necessary. 

“A few days. Less than a week. I think.”

She gives him a funny look, “No tally marks on your wall, huh?”

“Nope. I seize the day.”

That makes her giggle. The ring of it too unfamiliar to Sam’s ears it’s almost refreshing. 

“I heard you're here because the voices won't let you sleep. And lo and behold, you’re sleeping through a mini-apocalypse. What’s up with that?”

Sam lowers himself to sit down on the edge of the bed, lets his hands dangle in the gap between his parted thighs. His shoulders lift, and then drop. His tone takes on a hint of mirth, both matter of fact and simultaneously a jest. 

“See, if there’s one thing to know about my voices, it’s that they’ve never heard of middle grounds.”

Marin does that thing again. That expression where she looks a little incredulous but also amused, a small smile that broadens into a small chuckle. It never reaches her eyes. But it’s honest and spontaneous enough, almost as if the mere action catches her off guard. 

“You’re a little weird,” she muses, but she’s not exactly complaining, “Can’t tell if you’re well adjusted or just so fucked up you can’t even bother.”

Sam has no real answer for that. Not-Lucifer snickers in the corner. She doesn't look like she's waiting for any.

“How did you get the burns on your hand?”

“How did you get the burns on your neck?”

“House fire. You?”

“An experiment. Did you set the fire?”

“No. Did your experiment work?”

“No.”

Marin goes to sit next to him. Her eyes are wide and curious and somewhat invasive, stares down at Sam’s palm skeptically. Can tell that those are too recent to have happened before the hospital; she doesn’t ask how. 

“Call me a conspiracy nut, but I don’t think the storm was really a storm.”

Sam turns to look at her, unphased, respects her enough not to straight-up lie to her face, “Just like the house fire wasn’t really a house fire?”

She nods slowly. Baffled but grateful, again. Something tense and wound up about her posture loosens. She exhales, “I hear a voice too.”

Sam has more experience in the field than he ever wished to have, knows exactly where this is going. Could almost, almost, see it coming a mile away. He nods back, chews on his lower lip for a second, and then he nods once more.

“Tell me. Whatever fuckery you think no one else will believe, I’ll believe it. Who is it? I’ll help.”

\----

Gabriel didn’t want to know.

But just like it has always been with the family, where matters of love and war were concerned, what Gabriel wanted didn’t matter. 

Michael gave no introductions. Lucifer didn’t use words or ask for permission. The moment they stepped foot in Death’s realm, Lucifer cupped his little brother’s face, fingers pressed into forehead and temples, firm and unyielding, let the knowledge and the relevant memories flow.

It lasts longer than it should because Gabriel resists it. A minute, more or less, and then it’s done… And Gabriel is still screaming with the force of it before he even processes the information. 

“Sorry, Gabe,” Lucifer tells him as he pulls back a few inches, keeps an arm out to catch him when he staggers back. He sounds sorry for entirely different reasons, “Here’s the long and short of it. What I’d like to ascert-”

But Gabriel isn’t listening because it hurts. It hurts in all the ways it never could, for Lucifer, for Michael, even for Raphael. Because Gabriel never knew God as a Father, not really, not like they did. He knew God as a commander and something sometimes tender, something to be obeyed, something that, if he did and excelled well enough, might drop a few crumbs of praise that he ate up like it meant the world to him.

Sure. He was loyal to God. He was the Messenger. Fastest of his brothers, herald of the apocalypse, all the honors He must have had left over from the first three but-

God loved Lucifer. Loved Michael. Cared for Raphael, Gabriel knew that, knows those three facts, for certain.

He doesn’t know where he stands with the Guy.

Even if that... unending love had been built into him, he couldn’t help but think that it kinda made sense for Dad to be a voyeuristic dick.

But the emotions Lucifer’s little knowledge drop came charged with don’t fit.

Gabriel doesn’t feel grief and lost love and betrayal and _why, why, why_ \- not to the same extent.

Resignation. Anger. At Father. At his brothers. At the whole lot of them.

At Lucifer. Who’d taken care of and loved him in all the ways the Almighty hadn’t, thinks that somehow entitles him to blind loyalty; once again, stoking on weaponry and empty ambition and, ‘join me in my quest, Gabe.’

First it was humans.

Gabriel figures someone as prideful as his brother had to move on to bigger and better things at some point, and you don’t get much bigger and better than God.

Michael isn’t off the hook. Again. ‘Your duty. Your purpose. Join the war effort.’‘

Gabriel is tired of it. Has always been tired of it. The family he loves with every fabric of his being, grabbing at bits and pieces of him, weaponizing him against each other, because ‘fuck you and everything you stand for; we come first.’

Fuck them and everything they stand for. He won’t fight. 

“You never fucking change,” he wrestles his way out of Lucifer’s arm, pushes him away with fists to his chest and enough punching force to throw him off his balance, “I’m just the little brother you can take advantage of, huh? No rights to privacy or personal space or peace. Just shove your new agenda down my throat and I should follow. Because if it wasn’t ‘look at how terrible the humans are’ before the fall, it’s ‘look how terrible Father is’ after. Give me a break. _I don’t care_.”

And his hands are clenched by his sides, his wings arched and puffed up, his lower lip quivering as he glares off at nothing in particular in a vast plane of nothingness to begin with.

Lucifer inclines his head to the right in barely suppressed irritation, clasps his hands together and says nothing. 

“No one wants to take advantage of you, Gabriel,” Michael says, impatient, “We simply believe this is our fight. All three of us. That you’re owed the knowledge regardless of how blissful ignorance is. The decision is yours on forward.”

But Gabriel knows what is left unsaid. A lecture he could repeat word by word on his own pathological avoidance and how it has ‘always been the problem,’ Because Michael sees the world in binary terms, and if you weren’t on the righteous path, the side he deems good and true, then you are actively in opposition of him and his. His disappointment an all consuming immutable thing, and it never compromised or allowed leeways. 

And Gabriel is explaining himself in all the ways he shouldn’t but feels like he must, “Michael, I’m happy. I’m happy if I’m not in the story. I don’t care what rock Dad kicked off to to watch us from, I don’t want to know. I’m fine where I am. I have a life. I’m not going to risk it.”

“You have nothing.” Lucifer enunciates his last word vengefully, “Everything you own, every path you forge, the life you hold so dear- He can take it. And not to punish you or to teach you a lesson. Not even to watch you suffer, because then at least He’d care enough to watch. No. He’ll take it when He sees fit to mold you into a disposable plot device in someone else’s story.” He pauses, the grave insult so personal, always so fucking personal with Lucifer, “Do you have any self-respect left or have the pagans taken it all?”

“You know what, Luci? You two are dangling the same kinda bait He would. So what are my options here? I play to your story or else I’m playing to His by default? No thanks. I want nothing to do with any of this. I won’t bite.”

Death, who’s been watching silently throughout, clears his throat to interrupt, “You’re not being baited into a fight you have no stakes in, Gabriel. Unlike whatever scenario your father might or might not involve you in, this here is about you. As much as it is about everyone else.”

“And what? What’s your new end-of-days plan? Color me fucking intrigued,” Gabriel scoffs, jittery, fidgeting, “Cause what I’m hearing here is, you want to take action against Dad? Go toe-to-toe with Father? Are you all having a collective delusion or am I missing something? He’s God? Capable of smiting three of the four of us any second now? Hello?!”

Michael and Lucifer exchange a look, and then the former inhales deeply, “No such thing. We haven’t planned another Armageddon if that concerns you at all. We’re discussing logistics, options. There’s a spot on the table for you if you want it. I have nothing else to say.”

And then Michael turns on his heels and walks away. Just like that. Gabriel doesn’t remember ever seeing him this… defeated. Something in the core of his grace, in his vessel’s chest, stirs, aches. 

“Take me back.” Gabriel whispers, after a moment, very quiet. 

Death gives him another moment to reconsider, and then, “Are you sure?”

“Deadly. I’m done with this.” 

“Sleep on it, brother," Lucifer is suddenly right in front of him, lording his height over him like he always does with or without a vessel. His hand lands on Gabriel’s shoulder, his grip as soft as the fluid affection in his eyes, "You care a lot more than you're letting on. You'll come around. I'm sure of it." And when his fingers curl a tad tighter, and the waves of blue freeze over, there goes the camaraderie. His voice is ice and it’s a blatant threat, “Ah. And not a word of this to your little clique back home, Gabriel. Ruin this for me again and they go down in flames before you can blink your farewells.”

Gabriel has been wondering when the threats will come. They never change.

He presses his lips, expression so outwardly hostile for a split second before it swiftly eases into an all-out mischievous smirk, “Say, Luci, did Sam ever watch the full tape?”

A tinge of red and an almost glare and Gabriel didn’t really think his brother would ever have a ‘back home’ too but there it is. He’s lived to see the day. 

Lucifer’s hiss is instant, thoughtless, “Careful...” 

“Anywhosit-” and Gabriel saunters towards Death, intentionally slowing himself down because all he needs to do is to bolt. Get as far away from them as spacetime would allow him. Grieve.

“Can I go now?”

\----

“Promise me one thing, Michael. If this, whatever this is we're trying to do, fails- or if you decide at any point along the way that you're better suited on the other side- you won't let Him throw me in the cage again. Your blade, quick and clean. Yes?”

Michael's expression doesn't betray much. He leans a little closer to run a cautious finger along the old tears on his brother’s wings, spread to their full glory and riddled with marks neither of their grace can ever heal. The damage pulses against Adam’s steady hand. Michael can still feel his own grip around his lance, solid with conviction and terribly unrelenting. 

He nods once, looks up, “You'll do the same for me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We love discussing this universe with you! Your feedback feeds our souls. Thank you so much for reading!
> 
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	29. Out of the Heart of Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last piece of that puzzle.

It’s 11 pm and the incessant noise of barely contained chaos has finally dwindled into an eerie exhausted quiet, hospital hallways dimly lit and vastly vacant, the epilogue of a very long day stretching all the way to almost midnight; because just then, Marin sneaks back in. 

And to call the common ground they’re meeting on slippery would be an understatement. Sam wouldn’t usually allow the revelation to get personal, would break the news in as few kind words as he can manage and then he’s all business: hunt the monster, save the human, move on to the next case. It’s part of the job, he supposes, separating himself from an ongoing tragedy that isn’t his so he can fix it. God knows Sam can’t fix his own. And yet they freefall into something akin to a conversation between friends, and Sam can’t stop talking about things that hit a little too close to home, answers questions that aren’t strictly need-to-know for what’s to come, because he wants to give her closure. Because he’s trying to find his. 

For what it’s worth, it’s initially the same old story. Boy meets his untimely death. Boy rejects his untimely death. Boy sees a light and he chooses not to follow the light into what lies beyond. No fantastical afterlife of bliss and happy reunions for him. No eternal rest in peace. His soul remains stranded in limbo, decaying, rotting, going mad. 

Marin’s very dead brother is both gone and not, both here and not. But then again Marin has always somehow known. All Sam did was fill the gaps and give her nightmare a name-

A vengeful spirit, in the veil, tethered to you.

But she’s dealing with the truth of it as well as anyone could. Which is not to say she’s not meandering through the five stages of grief as they speak, or that the terrible inescapable knowledge of what became of the little brother she cremated and mourned hasn’t infected her eyes. It always infects their eyes. 

Sometimes Sam wonders if the quest for answers is as absurd as it is blatantly masochistic. He wonders if he could have spared her the dysfunction. If he could have stolen the bracelet and got it all done out of sight. Perhaps if he didn’t point at the tumor wearing her brother’s face and explained in excruciating detail how they need to remove it and watch it burn, perhaps then she’d have a chance at a normal life. Therapy-on-Mondays ignorance-is-bliss apple pie life. 

...but now she knows. And it’s a brand-new look on her, a different, worse, kind of haunted. This sickly fretful thing wriggling beneath her skin and grasping at the straws of direction because it’s lost. Sam can banish the ghost but he can’t banish the knowledge of it; he can’t make her unsee what she’s going to see. It feels dirty, the roundabout ways he’s gone about supposedly helping her. The truths and the choices he’s thrown at her. She didn’t deserve the burden. She doesn’t deserve to carry it with her. 

She eventually asks, at some point, after a treasure hunt for a bag of salt and a stolen lighter; she asks about Sam’s similar-but-not-quite affliction as they pour the salt in a circle and prepare for what needs to be done. 

“What’s haunting you- you’re trying to banish it too, right?”

And Sam has been relatively open and he did his fair share of sharing, and yet the specifics of his own current situation have remained somewhat of a riddle, vaguely hinted at but never discussed at length. Something about Sam’s knee-jerk reaction to stiffen and close off when she’d inch in too close has clued her in on the outline of boundaries she had no intention of crossing. For all the ways she didn’t hold back with her questions or her uneducated guesses, she’d still politely tiptoe around this specific subject, instantly retreating when it got too sensitive. 

Sam appreciates it, the easy camaraderie she freely offered when he didn’t give her enough to earn it. The space she maintains for comfort, the way she’d inconspicuously avert her eyes when Sam starts to scratch at a faded bruise on the back of his neck or flinch almost imperceptibly at the random mention of certain keywords, like God, or Hell, or possession...

“Oh, that’s a whole other can of worms,” he tells her, casually dismissive as can be, “It’s not that straightforward in my case.”

And he knows she needs the distraction. Knows she’s going through the motions because if she pauses to think about what she has to do, she might never do it. Needs to focus on someone else’s problem in the same way Sam is channeling his restlessness into a solution for hers. Because now she’s eyeing him with invested concern, all too willfully redirecting the freight trains of her thoughts entirely towards the mystery that is Sam’s unbanishable monster. 

“Because you can’t find the object that tethers it to you? All those magical symbols you’ve been drawing- you’re trying to locate the link so you can burn it, right? That’s why you burnt your hand… you think it’s inside you.”

Considering how little she actually knows, the scattered bits and pieces of information Sam would drop cautiously so he doesn’t reveal too much, it’s not a bad conclusion to draw. Wrong, sure, but Sam admires the logic behind it. 

He shakes his head softly, a small smile hovering over the corner of his lips, “Well, no. The dots you’re connecting are not exactly relevant to each other. But then again I didn’t give you much to go on. Let’s just say it’s not a ghost and there’s no tetheri-”

And then Sam pauses, stills. A disjointed, morbidly comical hypothesis strikes him mute. It’s distant at first, inaccessible. So outside the realm of possibility Sam almost dismisses it without a second thought. But it’s latching onto him with such force, digging its claws into his brainstem and injecting him with parts of itself, miniscule parts that make no sense whatsoever in and of themselves. But now they’re filling him up and they cluster, they take form, they grow…

Sam drops the bag of salt and watches it spill, backs away a few steps, staggering. His hands jerk up to his head and he cradles it, sinks his nails into his hair and then into his scalp and he’s whispering breathlessly like a madman, barely audible, to himself, no one else-

“They’re not real, the hallucinations, not real, just me- but if they are- but it’s not like he’s dead and even if, it’s not like he has a soul that can stay behind but- grace is malleable, malleable, it’s been inside me all along- not a ghost but a phantom, something similar, separate, stuck- leftovers- inside me- merge, merge, merge, almost merged all the way, had to pull back, trap the memories behind the wall, stuck, leftovers- getting angry, angry, vengeful- and now it’s free, inside me, like a parasite- like a leech, and if I say yes we’re together again-”

“Sam…”

“Is that why you can’t touch me? Must have known, known, of course he’d know- did he always know? Could snap you into oblivion but he’d choose not to- gotta need him, need him, always need him- his damstel in eternal fucking distress- so stupid, I’m so stupid, I’m not crazy- I’m so stupid-”

“Sam, shit, shit, please don’t do this-”

And then Sam starts pacing, panting, wheezing, every word spat out like venom, like it scalds his tongue on its way out. And he doesn't look right, nothing about this spells right or sane or safe. His tone hasn't once risen in volume, just this menacing hushed stream of nonsense dripping out of him with a target, homicidal.

“Where- where- where- where are you hiding? I can feel you hiding- I can feel you now- sneaky fucking worm, crawling deeper, deeper in- I’ll burn you alive- I’ll burn us both alive- come out, come out, come out- _fucking look me in the eyes and tell me you’re real you fucking coward-”_

“Sam? Sam? Sam, you’re scaring me- you’re scaring me- what the fuck is wrong with your eyes?”

Sam’s head snaps in the general direction of her voice and he’s gritting his teeth too tight he’ll dislocate his jaw and his hands are fists by his side and he’s vibrating, vibrating, eyes glowing a faded shade of red, on and off like a flickering fluorescent bulb. And he can’t see her, he can barely see anything past the inner walls of his flesh, chasing after a virus that keeps squirming out of his grasp the second he touches it- found it, found it, found it; he can touch it, he can feel it, he can end it-

How could he be so blind? Running in Lucifer’s mazes, falling for the same savior routine as if the lying fucking bastard wouldn’t use every single element the world or pure chance throws so conveniently in his lap and then he’d devise some more just to trap him because Sam lets him and Sam never learns. Funny enough it took Marin’s terribly uniformed fresh perspective to even consider the possibilit-

Marin. Marin. Fuck. 

And Sam is suddenly right back here and he can see her. Face pale and tear-stricken and she’s terrified, trembling, clutching at her bracelet a tad too tight and she’s shaking her head violently, voice quivering with panic because Sam is standing between her and the door and she’d rather be anywhere else but here.

“I can’t do this- I’m sorry, I can’t do this- I wanna go- Sam?”

Sam deflates. His posture loosens and his knees buckle. He blinks rapidly and it’s instant, the transition, as fluid as the grace writhing within him it’s almost poetic, the sneer etched on his lips fading into a soft heartbroken frown and his apologies are ashes in his throat and it sickens him. How easily he could have snapped, the rush of boiling righteous fury and how it subsumed him, became him, how he’d pretend at sanity and kindness and reason now-

Unthreatening and guilty. It feels filthy, any attempt at healing the trust he just damaged. Deceptive, selfish, like he’d be lying through his teeth to manipulate her into forgiveness. He doesn’t deserve it. 

He nods stiffly, quickly, gets out of the way. His limbs are still willing with energy and the realization is still coursing through him, rampant and raging, and there’s nothing to say. The violation beneath his skin screeching too loud Sam can barely think straight.

“The bracelet. Uh, Marin. Leave it here. I’ll get it done. Please.”

She flashes past him to get the hell out of the room, stops at the door to snatch the bracelet off of her wrist and throw it his way. She parts her lips to say something, swallows it, decides not to. 

And then she’s gone. 

Sam stares at the thing on the floor blankly, the tethering object, the lighter, the unfinished salt circle, his own hands. His mind wanders and so does his gaze. Keen physical disgust ripples through his abdomen and bubbles up to his chest like acid and Sam can’t reconcile with the parts of him that chased the cold within him and almost claimed it, pulsated with it. And-

Lucifer chose to let it stay. Didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to. Played house, made promises, always an agenda. Why? Why did Sam expect any better? It stings. 

What now?

He pads over to his bed, grabs the torn and scattered pages off his sketchbook from under the pillow and gathers them into a semi-neat stack. He folds his notes to go, shoves them behind the waistband of his sweatpants. First, he’ll get the fuck out of here. And then what?

Still a job to be done. He glances back at the bracelet on the floor and now it’s on fire. He sees him in his periphery, Marin’s brother, pleading, cursing, burning, calling after her. He zones it all out. He wants out. He always wants out. 

Sun-burnt and freezing, he can’t stop shaking. If his soul screams any louder, _he’ll hear him._ Sam doesn’t want him here. 

One step out of the door and Sam wades into the murky waters of the empty hallway outside. Like every exist and every escape route that promised neither an exit nor an escape and Sam knows. He’s going to find a dark nearby alley once the hospital is behind him and he’s going to incinerate Lucifer’s grace out of him if he has to incinerate himself in the process. 

Lucifer will bring him back. It’s no big deal. But for the life of him, Sam will make damn sure Lucifer can’t bring _it_ back. He’ll count that a win. 

The universe warps on itself as it often does and decides differently, nonetheless. 

A needle to the neck and a firm hand slapped against his mouth and Sam glares blearily at the blurry figure in a nurse’s uniform pressing him flat against the wall. Heavy, solid weight and eyes black as tar and a man that isn’t quite a man shushing him through a smirk because…

“Where do you think you’re going?”

And then whatever is flowing through his veins does what it’s supposed to do and Sam’s consciousness slips and he’s out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay with this chapter! Yours truly is getting her ass kicked at work and we're adding new scenes as we go so some chapters may take longer than others! 
> 
> Your feedback, as always, is a gift and we can't appreciate you enough. Thank you so much for reading!


	30. Teacher, What Shall I Do to Inherit Eternal Life?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The enemy of his enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: no matter how he rationalizes it, Sam is very suicidal and is in a very bad place.

Just demons. Sam has woken up to worse. 

And if he were to reflect on the apathy, Sam would find that it isn’t exactly that, not really. Not the zero-self-preservation come-what-may suicidal indifference that would surface at times when what should kill you will neither kill you nor make you stronger. Only drained and hollowed out and nursing the monster child of a survival ripped out of your guts without your permission solely so it can be bestowed upon you as a gift you should maintain and celebrate, until it’s a gun to your head again and you’re losing again and you don’t care because you know the drill and you know the cycle and you’ll still be here through it all, anyway. It’s not that… 

Sam doesn’t attach any real value to whatever current state of being his biology would deem him be. They all fleet and interject and loop, alive or dead or something in between; they’re all the same. And in that sense, he supposes, he doesn’t really want to die, every bit as much as he doesn’t want to live. And while crossing those lines back and forth one time too many might naturally breed detachment as far as wherever he ends up on the spectrum, it’s the intent and the direction and the journey along the way that can hurt Sam in any substantial manner. 

So it’s not that Sam doesn’t much care for his own well-being or the fact that he’s tied down to a bed in a room with a demon that wants him harm. It’s that Sam doesn’t see how holding his life hostage by something with no access to his soul is supposed to feel like a threat. Because it doesn’t. It’s merely an inconvenience considering the timing. It’s almost funny. 

And when Sam does pry his eyes open, head still somewhat heavy courtesy of whatever drug he was injected with earlier, the sentiment is crystal clear on his face. Barely a tinge of irritation in an otherwise undisturbed sea of hazel.

“What’s the point?” He asks, dryly, tugging experimentally at the straps holding his wrists down, just to test their durability, gaze roaming the space in the same dull analytical fashion. The room is small, cramped, neglected. A different section of the hospital, Sam gusses. No windows to speak of.

The ECT machine whirring a few feet from his small bed is ancient. Not that any ethical establishment would have much use of those models anymore, or would even apply the treatment without informed consent and anesthesia. But the hospital is old- it will always carry the scars of bygone ways of treatments that weren’t so much medicine as shots in the dark. Carry the spirits of torment and loneliness and isolation from times before when the demons of the mind were more spiritual than mental or chemical.

That is to say it’s grimy and the dread etched into the walls is almost, almost gripping, a psychic imprint, the very bones of the room charged with it.

The demon, who Sam immediately recognizes as Marcus, turns away from the machine to face him, apparently just now aware that Sam is back online and is too chipper to conceal it. 

“Well, good morning to you too, sunshine. The point, you ask?” He clasps his hands together and inches closer, his eagerness childish and ungoverned. Like he’s already won a game he was playing with himself and he’s here to collect his prize. It leaves him reckless, the surety, leaves him vulnerable. Sam sees every unshielded entry point and knows he can use it.

“You’re Sam Winchester, our foretold Messiah,” Marcus whispers with a lilt in his voice, untangles his fingers to press his palm flat to Sam’s chest, licks his lower lip in reverie, “Lucifer’s true vessel.”

Sam glances down at his own chest impassively. He doesn’t move, “Aha. And?”

“And?” He smiles, too broad. The same brash, overconfident stock as always. “We just can’t have that, can we? Under, uh, new leadership now, boy, no place for the old order. Lucifer, out? You, here? That’s a disaster just waiting to happen. I’m here to make sure it doesn’t.” 

“You and me both.” 

The demon eyes him curiously, tsks and shakes his head. Sam prepares himself for a deluded self-congratulatory villain speech. He almost laughs. 

“Here’s what we know. We can’t kill you because he’ll just bring you back. You two obviously have some sort of connection, like a telephone line or something? You can call him in. He can find you. Whatever damage we inflict, he’ll heal. So here’s what we’re gonna do-”

He shifts back to the machine, retrieves the electrodes and holds them up for Sam to see, “We’re going to fry that pretty little head of yours until there’s nothing left to say yes, or to pray, or to bring hell down on us, okay? And then we’re going to put you away, ward you in, keep you alive and sealed in and he won’t find you-” And Marcus is so fucking proud of his little plan he practically can’t contain his glee, “But think of it this way, champ, by the time I’m done here, you won’t have enough brain cells to worry about us or him or anyone or anything ever again. At least you’ll be taken care of, right?”

And then he’s leaning over Sam to attach the electrodes to his temples, speaking as he goes, “Y’know, rumor has it the old man doesn’t like all this… innovation you humans have done so far as pain goes.” He says ‘human’ as if he were far removed from it. As if he weren’t two steps from fresh off the rack, “So I’m honored I get to be the one guiding you through this new experience.” He chuckles to himself, regards Sam with that same strange mix of curiosity and pride.

And Sam’s brow furrows in momentary confusion, a little too distracted to catch what Marcus was referencing. Before his face relaxes with understanding and his lips twitch with a small incredulous smile that rapidly widens until he’s straight out laughing too. Unnervingly grim and yet so open and unabashed. 

“New experience? Oh. Your old man struck me with lightning a few times. Fed me a living breathing wriggling electric eel I created myself a few times. I’m very familiar.” 

And if Sam’s hand was free, he’d have waved it dismissively because this was hilarious. Alas, he exhales and swallows, embraces the humor with obscene immodesty. Like he has all the bragging rights to the subject and the gold medal to show up for it, “Don’t let him hear you _think_ you could ever one-up him where making me suffer is concerned. I wouldn’t want to be you.”

Marcus’ upper lip curls and he falters, for a second, genuinely disturbed. Eyes fixed on Sam’s before he forcefully drags them away, back to the machine. He fiddles with it, adjusts the settings to their highest possible limits, doesn’t prime it quite yet.

“Well,” He breathes. A little uneven, objectively not human. Takes the barest moment to steady himself, a calming breath that’s more of a huff and isn’t calming in the least. “New or not, it’ll do its job, won’t it? The great Sam Winchester,” He looks at Sam again. Like he needs to take it all in, the stories they’re told, the splendor of this… man. “Boy king of hell, best and brightest of Azazel’s little bunch. Nothing more than a body and the will to breathe, when we’re done here. Hey-“ He smiles, all teeth; his brows raised. “Before we get started,” He holds up the sheaf of papers Sam had with him- the sigils and wards desperately copied down by memory. “What are these?”

Sam ignores the question entirely, straightening up as much as the straps allow him, “The place you’ve set up for the body. What kinda warding are we talking?”

And the way the word slips out of him is empty of any associations: “body,” like it isn’t his. It catches Marcus a little off guard. He replies cautiously, “Powerful. Very powerful.”

“You don’t know.” Sam concludes easily, nods to himself, “You have a good witch on board then, I’m assuming?”

Marcus blinks. He’d expected something more. Struggling, maybe, a refusal. Just- anything, really. “...Yes?” Technically, yes, one of the other demons stationed in the hospital had been a witch. He doesn’t follow, not quite.

The fact of the matter was that this was an improvisation and while the plan seemed grand and all, it wasn’t sanctioned (yet) and while it should be relatively easy to persuade Crowley of the merits of it after the fact, he’s still not 100% certain he won’t find his neck on the chopping block after this.

But it will be done, and there probably wouldn’t be any chance of Sam being used as a vessel and he really doesn’t mind being a martyr for the cause. He’d figure out wards and spells when it was all over.

He stares at Sam, and then pauses before picking up the rubber mouth guard on the cart and then laying it back down as if he thought better of it. Hesitant, “Why?”

“You sound like you’ve done your research, but I don’t think you have any idea how powerful the warding needs to be. He’s been devising those from scratch before he even thought of making your kind. As much preparation as you think you’ve put into this, you haven’t put in enough. So I’ll ask you again, Marcus, do you have a good witch on board?”

Marcus looks positively, comically, stunned. It strikes Sam just then exactly why. When the demon cranes his neck and his voice goes too low and his brows knit in honest-to-god startelement and he asks, so very careful, “You want this?”

Sam doesn’t want this. Of course, he doesn’t want this. And yet he can’t help exploring the option as if it didn’t include him and had nothing to do with him. Lucifer’s true vessel, with Lucifer’s grace deeply ingrained within it, ready and self-aware and as malicious as the source, weaponized. A nuclear missile buried in the perfect housing environment that is Sam’s body and soul, traitorous too, accomplices too, and Lucifer has claim to both. And what’s the one thing standing between him and taking what he deems his? His word? That Lucifer said he doesn’t want it? Bullshit. 

Sam knows there is a plan in the works he isn’t privy to and has no ability to discern or derail. And perhaps if he wasn’t already on his way to possibly burn himself to a crisp to delay it in any way that counts, the opportunity presented to him now wouldn’t have been so outrageously convenient. 

In any case, Sam finds himself considering a scenario where this would work. He doesn’t do it selflessly; he’s not actively branding it a sacrifice. His thought process truly and completely removes him out of the equation. A vessel ripe for the taking that will make an ever-present threat ten times worse. It needs to be sealed away. It makes all the sense in the world. 

And maybe Sam is far too aware of how unreliable his sheer inner strength alone can be when Lucifer is involved. And maybe it failed him far too many times to have it be the sole be-all end-all defence line against a cosmic terror with parts of itself infesting him and waiting for an order to strike from within. 

Or maybe Sam is tired. Maybe this sounds like rest. Maybe this is the only way he can give up without giving up, fail and win and be no more. 

Sam doesn’t want to die. Sam doesn’t want to live. This isn’t either. 

But then again Sam is not sure he’s in his right mind to make this decision, that he isn’t full to bursting with resentment and blind unreasoning rage, too drunk on the suffocating overwhelming urge to _do something_ to actually do something right. if this isn’t a suicide mission that could endanger more than himself and the demons involved (not that he can afford to care about them, he doesn’t). But if the worst case scenario is Lucifer raises literal hell and kills them all and ‘rescues’ him only to punish him for it, Sam thinks he’d gladly take the chance. 

“The sigils you have in hand,” he starts, chest impossibly tight and the instant surge of paranoia has him frantically staring at the door and then the ceiling and then around the room, as if the walls have eyes and ears and the thought police are already on his trail, “-you might wanna get someone who knows what they’re doing to incorporate them if you actually want to get a place warded well enough. There’s a margin of error, I doubt they’re all accurate, and I’d assume they’ll require insane levels of magic to activate and some lines will need to be reworked. Crowley is in on this? If so, avoid Hell at all costs. Lucifer will know every stone there and most demons will volunteer to spill. We can’t do this here, too open, too exposed. Listen-”

And Sam’s lower lip is trembling despite his best efforts because he’s terrified, terrified. Because in spite of everything it still feels like a betrayal too great Sam can feel his very soul self-flagellating for even entertaining the thought. Because this has the slimmest chance of working and if withering away in a sealed nowhere in some misguided attempt to save the world doesn’t rouse an ounce of reasonable, justified fear in him, what Lucifer would do when it doesn’t work blatantly terrorizes him. 

Because for all his valor and the fire of his fury, Sam knows how far and how long and how well Lucifer can ruin him. And it’s disgraceful how one of this solution’s selling points is how it lends itself to plausible deniability. That Sam can pretend this was something done to him and not his choice. That it wasn’t his doing. If that would spare him…

_Oh, Sam. He’ll know. You’re his. He always knows._

The voice resonates in his head, familiar and utterly unwelcome, slick like honey. And Sam cranes his neck forward only to slam the back of his skull against the firm unforgiving mattress as if that would shut it up. 

_This is honestly pathetic as far as drastic measures go. How old is this demon, you think? Two? And you’re choosing to affiliate yourself with that- one of Crowley’s grunts? Is this room even warded?_

And Sam starts rambling because he needs to drown out the poison, a tinge of hysteria coating every word, “Listen- you won’t survive this and you shouldn’t plan to. If by some miracle we actually manage to ward me out of his sight, you and everyone who knows ‘where’ better be dead and gone by the time he’s out there looking. Or he’ll find you and then he’ll find me and you don’t want that. You don’t want that. I can’t stress enough how much you don’t want that-”

“You’re serious, you’re fucking,” Marcus laughs, breathlessly, and what other reaction is there? It’s not mirthful, it’s not anything, it’s noise he needs to spill because the- anxiety, the idea that this could- work, that he could do this for Crowley and one of the major problems of having Lucifer back on the chessboard would be solved. He could solve it. Dead or not he’d be the one.

“It will work!”

It’s all over the demon’s face. How unprepared he is. How young and how thoughtless. The naive juvenile confidence of someone new to power and hasn’t yet explored its limits, overestimates it on principle. The way he stares down at the scattered papers, stupefied, and yet giddy with the mirage of a best case scenario. The vanity is alarming. 

The voice in Sam’s head cackles. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard. 

_You’re buying this? You’re that desperate? He’s got nothing, zip, nada. Barely out of his diapers and doesn’t even know it. Come on, Sammy, it’s frankly embarrassing._

“There are parts of Hell, sections, libraries, will just get someone to interpret those. We’re golden. It’ll work. Holy fuck it’ll work!”

_Even if you don’t end up praying, your soul will. We’ve done this before, roomie. How long do we think it takes him to catch on? Swoop on in here and- oh, he’ll know you allowed this. Wholeheartedly. If the demon doesn’t squeal, if he kills it on sight… even if he won’t reach in and pluck out the thoughts and the memory. Why. I’d tell him myself just to see what happens._

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe, “We can’t do this here.”

Marcus doubles down, “It’ll take a minute. And then I’ll zap us out.”

And Sam huffs, both nervous and irritated, shakes his head, “You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing. This is a medical therapy apparatus not a car battery. It’s _designed_ not to damage me-”

_And now you’re going to lecture him on how to properly lobotomize you? Don’t make me do this, Sammy, you’re not going to like what happens next._

But now the thing is hissing in his ears, piercing, threatening, almost worried. The very fact that the bastardized sentient parasite crawling under his skin doesn’t want this, is almost a good enough reason to do it. Sam thinks of the silver lining, the karmic justice, of the thing trapped with him when he’s nothing but a vegetable. He won’t be here to suffer, or gloat, but it will. It will remain. 

Except the thought seems to hit a nerve and Sam can feel the grace inside him seething, breathing acid into his veins. And it strikes Sam just then that he might have underestimated the thing’s survival instinct. Because now it’s beyond politie negotiations and whatever lines Lucifer enforced and it should not cross. 

It crosses them all. 

Sam knows what’s going to happen before it happens, knows the son of a bitch doesn’t exactly have the luxury of time to toy with Sam’s distress and his endurance and wait for a stray prayer to slither its way up to the fallen archangel amidst the stars. Because while Lucifer might willfully turn a blind eye to Sam’s casual anguish if he has better things to do with his day, there’s one thing and one thing alone Lucifer is always attuned to and, when in harm’s way, will bring him here in a flash. 

Touch what’s his. Sully it. Tear into it. The thing goes for Sam’s soul. Vicious. 

And Sam’s back arches off the bed violently, like a bowstring, tight and taut and ready to snap. His eyes roll back in their sockets and he’s suddenly foaming at the mouth and Marcus staggers back aggressively, doesn’t understand, shoots a glance at the machine just to confirm he hasn’t turned it on. He hasn’t. He doesn’t understand. 

“What’s happening?”

But for all intents and purposes, it’s merely a surface-level scratch. The thing wouldn’t dare dig deeper and most probably doesn’t have the capacity to. Regardless, it’s not pain one can adapt to. Or get used to, or anticipate, and it’s never constant because the soul itself is an ever shifting, changing thing, more adept at twisting away from damage or absorbing it when it absolutely has to. It’s spiritual, the violation, the phantom agony, lacking on the finesse Lucifer would religiously maintain when he’d go for Sam’s soul too. 

It’s a provocation. Heedless. Intentional. 

Lucifer will come. 

And Sam knows it, he knows it, he knows it with wrenching debilitating panic that flares up white-hot and blurry, disfigured and all teeth and all promises and right before his bloodshot eyes. 

Marcus turns the machine on because he doesn’t know what else to do. And less than ten seconds after, he’s tilting his head back to smoke out and it’s still not fast enough. 

****

A wave of cold concentrated energy storms into the room and almost freezes it in a blink. Ice crawls up the walls. It’s airborne. It’s angry. It infiltrates Sam’s lungs and, in his haze of misery, he can feel him. The velocity with which the space morphes itself to accommodate the new presence in all its dimensions is uncanny. Sam’s soul screeches and cowers and then it yearns. It’s animalistic like that, mindless; the moment he’s here and the sharp metallic taste of his displeasure has Sam convulsing with a thousand shades of fresh terror when the pain fades into background noise because it can’t compete; it doesn’t try. 

Lucifer shoves the demon back into his meatsuit with a flick of his finger, blows up the machine in the corner with a wave of another. The current stops. The thing’s deliberate violation ceases. Both immediately and in tandem. Sam collapses back into the bed boneless, eyes glazed over, meet scarlet. Lucifer quirks his head in question. The tight line of his lips vows horrors Sam can’t begin to translate. 

“What is this?”

And when this is all over, when Sam has enough wits about him to attempt at a retrospective explanation, Sam still wouldn’t know if what happens next is intentional, or if it’s merely a cocktail of riled up emotions imploding first and then bursting out of him beyond his control.

Because he’s still shaking, still jerking with the aftershocks, still electric. A source of energy, like Lucifer taught him, coursing through him in abundance and Sam draws it in, lets it wash over him, converts it, redirects it. Energy taken from the room that has the lights flickering and the smoldering machine smoldering just a bit more and it’s a tidal wave of something like rage and something like raw panicked self-preservation, wild and unfocused and thrown at full force, the brunt of it all at Lucifer and Sam is screaming, screaming, delirious. 

“I don’t want you here- I don’t want you here- don’t want you here-”

Lucifer takes the blow right in the chest. It barely shoves him back half a step. He stares down at the scorch mark on his shirt and then up, confused. His eyes narrow. 

“Really, Sam?”

But then that’s it. Sam is empty. Bone-deep exhaustion tows him in and his head flops back down on the mattress and he watches as the demon, _stupid, stupid, stupid, digging his own grave,_ tries to smoke out again. A terribly miscalculated move because in a theatrical display of sheer skill, and with a mere glance, a barbed wire metal thread sews itself in and out of his lips until they’re stitched shut. Soaked in holy water, Sam guesses distantly when he can smell the muffled howl burn. 

“Be a good boy and stay put. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

And Sam’s heart thunders in his ribcage when Lucifer creeps closer, still has this uncertainty about him, unsure and undecided. But the red in his fixed gaze parts Sam’s face then and he’s looking into him, cataloging possible internal damage, scanning his soul. 

Lucifer pauses at the side of the bed and Sam is mute and dumb and the dread has him glued in place and he braces himself when Lucifer shoves his fist elbow deep in his chest except there’s no pain at all. None whatsoever. Just the familiar waterfalls of grace and Lucifer isn’t hurting him, not him, isn’t addressing him when he speaks. 

“What did I say? Remind me.” 

_You said you’ll destroy me. I did it for a reason._

“Hm?”

_Sammy here agreed to a full wipe. Like a magnet on a floppy disk. According to thing one over there it’s to make sure he won’t be able to say yes to you. Won’t be able to do… anything, really. Your little bitch is just that, will sell you out in a sec-_

And then the voice in Sam’s head is cut off and gone and Lucifer yanks his arm out, flexing his fingers, no blood to speak of, not even a tear in Sam’s shirt. He pulls back. 

“That right, Sam?”

The question is neutral, cold. Sam knows the tone. He blinks, hyperventilates. 

“Help me understand, baby. You know I can rebuild your brain neuron by neuron. What am I missing?”

“They’d- they’d have warded uh- a place. Hide the body- hide it there.”

“Warded,” and Lucifer’s gaze lands on Sam’s notes, on the lines of sigils on paper; he purses his lips, “Ah. Those off memory? Clever. But not good enough. My own sets, silly. I’d have cracked those in a minute. That’s assuming anyone but me knew how to use them. Get up.”

He hooks his index finger under the strap around Sam’s wrist, tugs a little, experimental, testing its durability in the same way Sam did earlier, “You can take care of those. Come on. Up.”

“Lucifer I-”

Lucifer clicks his tongue, “Now.”

The straps are polypropylene, thick, heavy. Sam could have melted them at any point but he only does now. They fuse with his skin, flay it; it’s agonizing. Sam barely makes a sound, dry sobs that he stifles like he knows he should. He’s up in half a minute tops, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes and they won’t fall. He can’t reason with the helpless, demeaning, incapacitating terror. He can’t find his words through it. Can’t think of anything but a select dictionary of exactly how he should beg for forgiveness. What he should offer, if he should do it on his knees, if Lucifer would let him…

“As useless as this entire ordeal is, I think we’ve all learnt something new about ourselves today.” Lucifer hums evenly, stepping away to lean back against the opposite wall and thumbing at his lower lip, pondering out loud, “What you did with the electrical charge, that was interesting. Do it again.”

Sam plants his feet on the floor and hauls himself up to stand, swaying. Face locked up in an expression of utterly inconsolable misery, “I’m ss-sorry.”

It’s heavy, each syllable, in his throat, on his tongue, it weighs him down. He wants to curl in the fetal position on the floor until it swallows him whole. He wants to disappear. 

Lucifer arches a brow, and then he smiles. The first time today. It’s so genuine, so open. His eyes gleam with it. Sam wonders if the devil still loves him, if that would spare him. It’s a sickening thought, nauseating, how much he clings to that, how it’s his only salvation when he knows what he’s in for and doesn’t know how else to escape it. 

“You’re not sorry for the right reasons,” Lucifer tells him, cavalier, like it doesn’t mean a thing, either way. He gestures with his head to the demon doubling over on the floor, clawing at his sealed lips, scratching his face bloody, “Put on a good show for me. Kill it. Don’t use your hands.”

Sam’s nostrils flare. The denial is pointless. He knows, he knows the demon will die anyway. Painful or fast, it doesn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter in the slightest. Just another monster to purge, except it isn’t that. It’s a performance, a game, penance. Lucifer wants blood and he’ll get it and Sam can either provide or watch and he better choose his poison. A very thin line Sam walks so precariously, somewhere between what he’s willing to do to save the innocents unfortunate enough to get caught in the crossfire and, if at all possible, himself, and the grey areas of a self left behind and worth saving. One push and he’ll topple over the edge, twist himself into whatever Lucifer wants to see in the endless pursuit of damage control. He looks up at him, pleading for the reassurance, and Lucifer, magnanimous as ever, gives it. 

“We’ll use it and its friends for target practice and I’ll keep my promise to do no harm because I care about your feelings _that_ much. Now earn the kindness, Sammy. Make it worth my while. Impress me.”

And Sam gets the message loud and clear, takes it in, digests it. He nods hectically. 

Just demons. They’re just demons. Just demons...

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: electroconvulsive therapy can be very beneficial and is designed to be extremely safe. The stigma is unwarranted. The depiction of ECT in this chapter is only negative in context and to mirror the scene from canon. We're not doctors.
> 
> As always, your feedback makes our week! Thank you so much for reading!


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